


The Taste of Midnight

by Bloodsbane



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Bad Weather, Canon Asexual Character, Chronic Pain, Fluff and Humor, Friendship, GNC Jon, Gen, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist With a Cane, M/M, Minor Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Mystery, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, Storms, Strangers to Lovers, updates tuesdays
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-16 23:47:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 29,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28715247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bloodsbane/pseuds/Bloodsbane
Summary: Following in his grandmother's footsteps, Jon Sims is a potion-maker who uses his magic to support the people of his hometown, Fairside. One evening, a sudden downpour causes Martin Blackwood, the courier who delivers Jon's supplies back and forth, to knock on his door for assistance.That first simple, cordial encounter gradually develops into something like friendship, maybe even something more. But making a new friend isn't the only trial Jon finds himself up against - something strange is brewing in Fairside, and if a solution isn't found, the outcome could be disastrous.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 78
Kudos: 153





	1. The Light and Leaves

**Author's Note:**

> The concept for this fic started in the communal plot bunnies channel for The Magnus Writer's server! Specific shoutouts go to Zykaben, who pitched the concept that started the discussion, and Dathen, who suggested something that ended up being a key plot element in this fic. 
> 
> I have been working on this fic since... August, I think! It's probably the longest WIP I've ever managed to hold off on posting, hah. I'd say at the moment of posting this first chapter, the fic is about 85% finished. I only have two more chapters to write, though some scenes I skipped need to be filled in, and the whole thing will have to be looked over/edited for consistency and stuff. 
> 
> That being said, I would love to put this on a weekly schedule for posting. Here's hoping I can find enough time to polish up the fic so there won't have to be any delays. 
> 
> I really wasn't expecting this fic to end up so long... so, I really hope you guys enjoy it!!

Jon’s day is a well-worn, predictable routine. He wakes up in his little room to the first vestiges of morning intruding through the blinds. He watches the dust motes float around in the gentle light, trying to remember his dreams, before pulling himself out of bed. He quickly washes up, gets dressed, and refreshes the Seeing spell on his glasses before heading downstairs. **  
**

First he double-checks his outgoing supply note, left on the counter, to make sure he hasn’t forgotten to request anything he urgently needs. After inspection, the note is rolled up and fastened with twine, then goes to the exchange window. On the floor beneath the window is a basket of carefully preserved potions and bundles of herbs Jon crafted. He compares the contents of the basket with the request list from last week to confirm that nothing is missing.

Once he’s certain everything is in order, Jon pulls open the shutters, letting in the light and air of morning, and tries to appreciate it for a moment. Everything is the same as ever, though — a lightly-worn path hidden beneath the thick blanket of ever-flourishing grass and shrubbery, bordered on each side by woodland. A thin canopy of leaves casts white, dappled light across the ground, like a scatter of ever-swaying flowers. From where he stands, Jon can identify two bird nests in the branches overhead, another sign of early spring. 

Jon makes himself take a deep breath of fresh air, knowing he won’t be getting much more of it that day. Then he pushes himself back into the routine, reaching to pull up and set the extension of the window-sill. He places the supply note in a small, empty jar he’s tied with rope and hung from a thick nail. It rests against the outer wall at about eye-level, and soon it will be empty once more. Then he lifts the basket onto the sill and covers it, tying the cloth securely so nothing is liable to fall out. 

There’s a brief mental debate on whether or not he should leave the window open, but a shrewd certainty that some creature would take it as an invitation to crawl in and cause trouble compels Jon to close the shutters. With his most pressing morning chore complete, Jon sets about making himself a serviceable breakfast to get him through the day’s work. 

There’s a sense of relief once Jon walks into the back room which makes up his workspace. This is where he’s most comfortable, most focused. As Jon makes his way around the room, checking to make sure all is where it should be, he murmurs a spell and blows warmth and light into the handful of sconces hanging around. Soon there’s enough light to work with, and he settles in for a long day of potion-making. 

The hours pass, one by one, marked by the gradual dimming of the sconces and the smell of boiling brews. Jon refreshes his lights between chopping, peeling, slicing, smashing, mixing, cooking, stirring. It’s not until late afternoon that thirst finally drags him away, and even then, only for a moment.

Night falls before Jon feels he’s done enough. He’s hungry by the time his last potion for the day finishes steeping. Once it’s bottled and safely stored, he makes himself a light, bland dinner, something easy on his stomach. 

While he eats, Jon opens his notebook and updates his lists. He marks off the things he set out to complete today, writes down things that need to be attended to in the morning. He begins a new list of supplies he’ll be needing to stock up on; this one will receive updates over the next three days and be sent off just before his two days of rest. 

Speaking of the supply run. Jon puts his dishes away before going to the exchange window. As expected, he opens the shutters to find a sizable bundle of supplies, along with a small handful of tin containers. He brings them inside, collapsing the sill extension and closing the window once more. 

It’s dark in the house without any natural light, so Jon finally sets fire to some candles. Then he sorts through his delivery, putting things away in the kitchen, his workspace. There are a couple of books and toiletries he sets aside for the trip back to his room. Then, once the basket is empty, Jon inspects the bespelled bottle with his list of duties and requests. A quick word of unwinding lets him uncork the bottle, though fishing out the note is, as always, more difficult than it really should be. 

The contents of the note are as expected: medicine, mostly, along with a handful of more recreational potions. There are specific herbs required which only he can harvest and prepare safely; Jon schedules an outing in his notebook. At the very bottom of the paper, however, is a request for an enchantment, with the components he’ll need listed. Jon quickly writes his own copy of the instructions on a separate piece of paper, making a mental note to check some of his books to see if there’s anything that can help him with the process. He’s not as well-practiced when it comes to spellcraft, but he knows enough to get by. 

When it’s finally time to sleep, Jon takes his glasses off to rub at his eyes, letting them dangle from the chain to rest against his ribs. On his way up the stairs, he pauses at a small window. It opens up to the west side of the building where, growing up along the entire height of his house, there is a tree. Its bark is notably dark amidst the pale grey and chalky white of the smaller trees surrounding it, and its limbs are longer, more vertical. Its leaves are long and thin and a deep green nearing purple, while the fruit that weigh down each thin stem are a dull grey.

Jon opens the window, appreciating the slight breeze that flows in. When he replaces his glasses, Jon can see the true color of the fruit: deep, gently luminous purple. Jon reaches out to pluck two of the ripest fruits within reach. He can see sparks of magic when they’re pulled from their stems, tiny blue lights falling to the earth like glittering flakes of snow. 

In his room, Jon fully removes his glasses and settles the fruit by his bed. He removes his clothes, quickly washes, brushing his hair and teeth, before pulling on a nightgown and pouring a glass of water for the night. Then, as he sits beneath his thin covers and stares out of his window, counting the stars, he carefully removes the skin of the fruit, tucking each piece away in a piece of cloth.

The fruit, once peeled, is easily divided into four wedges. The juice runs dark and thick, almost sticky, on Jon’s tongue. But its sweetness is that of a kiss from a friend, placed with sincere ease right on the cheek. Jon eats it all slowly, feeling the magic settle. 


	2. Damp Grows Knots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It rains, and Jon meets someone new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe how short these early chapters are...

On Jon’s first day of rest, it rains. A trickle that starts just after breakfast turns into an outright downpour hardly an hour later, and refuses to let up. It’s a shame, because Jon had intended to spend the better part of his afternoon fetching herbs and ingredients from the woods so he could use them throughout the next week. Plans dashed by the weather, he has no choice but to concede to a day of reading. 

He’s halfway through one of his old texts on the uses of roots when someone knocks on his door. It’s enough of a surprise to make Jon lose his grip on the book. It tumbles onto the floor, landing face-down in a heap that will no doubt cause unwanted creasing on a handful of pages. 

Jon stares across the room at the front door, nearly hidden behind an array of clutter that lives in the little alcove — a coat rack heavy with fabric; the tall vase to hold his umbrella and canes; his shoes, nets and baskets. It’s a normal door, fine dark wood like what’s seen throughout the rest of the cottage, except for the fact that it’s never, ever knocked on. No one comes here, and if they do, they certainly don’t knock on Jon’s front door. 

The sound is loud enough to cut through the steady thrum of rain, and even louder when it comes again, rousing Jon from his stupor. He slips onto his feet and hurries over to the door. With no small amount of reluctance — and once he’s got a good grip on one of his more sturdy canes — Jon opens the door.

The fellow outside is absolutely drenched. His thin cloak, darkened black by rain water, is plastered over a tall frame. The hood, which has clearly done nothing to protect his face, is likewise damp and dripping. Jon can just barely see one brown eye and a freckled cheek beneath wet hair and cloth. 

“Hi! Hello, um- so sorry to bother you,” he stammers. He’s raising his voice, and the rain seems louder now that Jon has the door open. “I’m, uh, the courier? And I just- well, your note, for the delivery, it sort of got too wet to read? You know...” He waves at the rain, being blown askew by the wind so it still hits him, even as he stands beneath the small stone archway. 

He then points helplessly in the direction of the exchange window. Jon looks at it over his shoulder, frowning deeply. Oh. The jar had likely been filled with water. 

“I apologize,” Jon tells the courier, feeling awkward. 

“Oh, it’s no problem, really!” The man seems quick to reassure Jon; he even pulls his hood back, pushing his hair out of his face, enough so Jon can see his expression better. He’s got a soft, round face, and a lopsided smile that Jon suspects is meant to be reassuring. “If you don’t mind, I can wait here while you write it up again? Maybe, uh, put it in another jar, with a lid this time, so it won’t get wet…?”

“I- yes. That sounds like… an idea,” Jon replies. He feels... a little conflicted. On the one hand, he wants nothing more than to escape this conversation, flee the front door and scribble down his groceries as quickly as he can, whatever it takes to send the man away. He doesn’t _do_ this anymore — small talk, conversation. There’s a reason Jon lives _away_ from town. 

But now that the man has moved his arm, Jon can see beneath his cloak, and he realizes not only is the courier trying to keep Jon’s small basket of outgoing supplies from getting soaked, but there’s something else tucked under his arm. Something for Jon, most likely. 

Alongside his concern for the supplies is a nagging feeling at the back of Jon’s mind. Jon can easily imagine his grandmother by the fireplace at their old house, instructing him to do this or that while they prepared for guests. More than once, people had come by needing medicine or advice from her, and she’d let them in, no matter how inopportune the timing was. Jon knew how to treat unexpected guests, even if he didn’t like having them.

“You can come in,” he offers, stepping away from the door and gesturing with one arm. 

His reluctance must not be subtle, because the man hurriedly shakes his head, holding up a hand. “Oh! N-no, no, you don’t have to invite me in or anything. I mean, I’m soaked through, I’ll get water everywhere-”

“Nonsense,” Jon interrupts. “Look, it’s fine. Just come in. It’s not practical to stand out there waiting; I can help you dry off, and if nothing else, perhaps the rain will let up before you’re on your way again.”

“Are you sure?” The man takes a half-step forward, just enough so his toe breaks the line of the threshold. “I really don’t want to intrude.” 

“It’s not an intrusion if I’m inviting you in,” Jon says, and he puts a bit more insistence behind his voice. Maybe if he sounds like he means it, the courier will pick up the pace. “You can call me Jon. What’s your name?” 

“Martin.” 

“Right then. I’ll get a stool for you to sit on.”

“Thank you!”

“Don’t mention it.” Jon closes the door and flees around a corner into the kitchen, keeping a firm grip on his cane. 

Soon, Martin sits on a tall stool next to the counter while Jon finishes a second draft of his list. As always, he’d remembered a couple things that had been forgotten on the previous note; he adds them now, feeling childish satisfaction at sneaking them on. Once he’s finished, Jon leaves the room to fetch more twine and another small jar. 

“Thanks,” says Martin as he accepts the jar. Jon watches him tuck it into a discreet pocket on the inside of his cloak. His nails are painted black, chipped at the ends. His hair is dark from the rain, gently curling as it begins to dry. When he looks back up at Jon, a rueful smile on his face, Jon notices that the warmth of the candles makes his eyes turn gold, like honey. “Sorry again for all the trouble,” Martin says. His voice is very soft for such a large man. “I’m afraid I’ve left a bit of a puddle on your kitchen floor.” 

Jon waves a hand at said offending water without breaking eye-contact. “It’s fine.” 

“I can, um, help clean it up-”

“You’ll do no such thing,” Jon tells him. “As if I’d let a guest clean anything in my house.”

To Jon’s surprise, this earns a chuckle from Martin. “Okay, okay… In that case, could I have a towel or something?”

“Yes, just a moment.”

Once Jon has fetched him something to dry off with, Martin asks, “So, is it just you out here?”

“Yes. I used to live in town, but after my grandmother died, well.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear about your gran.”

“It’s fine. It wasn’t unexpected.”

“You know, I think I remember that actually,” Martin tells him, his tone light as he searches his memory. “She made medicine and stuff like that for everyone, right? She had a nice funeral.” 

Jon nods and wonders what his expression must be. His feelings on his grandmother are… mostly fine. Good, even. She’d looked after him the same way she’d looked after anyone else: with steady diligence and a life’s worth of accrued skill. It had been sad, when she passed away, but not unexpected and certainly not a tragedy. 

“It annoyed me a bit, how public it all was,” Jon finds himself admitting. “I didn’t get any time alone with her until after everyone else had gone.” 

Martin says nothing more, but he does nod, and somehow Jon is able to appreciate his quiet sympathy. Then, naturally, he becomes flustered at having said something so personal. The only logical course of action is to turn away from Martin and set about making tea. Jon asks, “What is it like, being a courier?” 

For the next half-hour or so, Jon serves Martin tea and listens to the man talk. It’s surprisingly not awful. By the time the rain finally lets up, Martin is mostly dry, and Jon has spoken more in one day than he has since… Well, he’s not sure. Since he moved, probably. 

Soon Martin is back at the door, basket under one arm. The parcel he’d been sent to deliver is back on the kitchen counter, and Jon’s already itching to find out what’s hidden in the plain brown paper and string. 

“Thanks again for letting me stay,” Martin says. 

“Think nothing of it,” Jon insists. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you dry off more,” he adds, gesturing to Martin’s still damp cloak and clothes. “I would have, if I could, but it’s a resting day for me.” 

“That’s when… you have to not use magic, right?” 

“More or less.”

“It’s okay! Really, just a sit down and a towel was more than enough. And, um, it was really nice to finally meet you,” he says. 

Jon, a bit dazed, merely offers his hand. Martin shakes it; his hands are large and surprisingly calloused. 

“Have a safe night,” Jon offers as he watches Martin go.

“You too!” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How lovely to have one (1) Martin enter the story! It's always nice to write a meet-cute instead of a meet-ugly for these two <:3c
> 
> Thanks for reading~


	3. Like Ships; Like Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon builds up his courage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to say thank you very much to everyone who's left a comment so far~

Days later, Jon returns from a morning walk just in time to see Martin coming up the hill to the exchange window. Jon tucks himself in the canopy’s shadow, watching from behind a thin tree as Martin trades his latest basket of goods for the supplies Jon has left out. He then dips a hand into the jar to fetch Jon’s grocery list, tucking it into his cloak. 

There’s a moment where Martin merely stands in front of the shutters, staring at them, then towards the front door. He shifts back and forth on his feet. Just as Jon becomes tempted to move, Martin shakes his head and makes his way back toward town. 

Beyond the brief non-encounter, Jon’s day goes as expected. As does the next, and the one after that. When next the time comes to send off his goods, however, Jon decides to leave the window open. The door to his workroom is also left ajar, so he hears when someone trudges up to the window and starts messing with things. 

Natural light spills into the workroom, clean and yellow. It cuts through the dim space Jon has made for himself, with his flickering sconces and well-worn books. Jon stands, rooted in place, mechanically cutting stalks until he hears the person leave. When he eventually collects the new basket from the sill, it’s with a frown he can’t seem to banish. 

The frown stays until after dinner, when he’s double-checking the delivery. It’s then that he notices the little jar at the bottom. There’s a note inside, along with what looks like tea leaves. 

The note is from Martin. _Thank you again for letting me stay!_ Jon can tell with a quick sniff that it’s a pleasant mix of mint, chamomile, and lavender. 

It rains, a light but persistent drizzle that follows Jon to bed. That night he eats one fruit from the tree and saves its skin. In the morning, he makes tea with the leaves he was given. 

Finally, after two weeks of making potions and suffering cyclical internal debates, Jon waits with the window open. It’s a resting day, so he forces himself to settle on the couch with a book and stay there until he hears footsteps. When they’re close, he gets up and goes to the window.

Martin looks more than a little surprised to see him. Before he can speak, though, Jon asks, “I was wondering, are you the only one who does these runs?”

Martin waits until he’s within arms reach to speak. “Um, hello… Yes? I mean, I’m not the only courier, obviously, but as far as I know, I’m the only one who comes here for pick ups and deliveries.”

Jon quietly scoffs. “That’s not surprising.” 

“What do you mean?”

Rather than answer right off, Jon gives Martin a hard stare. The man is at least a head taller than Jon, yet squirms easily under his scrutiny. “Aren’t you afraid of me?” 

“Um, no? Why… Should I be?”

“People tend to be afraid of ‘witches’,” Jon says, clearly bitter. 

Martin only shrugs. “I know people who use magic. They seem just like anybody else. Why be afraid?”

“You’re not even the least bit intimidated by the witch who brews strange potions all alone in the woods like some sort of hermit?”

Martin snorts, then covers his face with a hand, clearly embarrassed. Jon takes a step closer to the window, close enough to feel the warmth of the sun when he rests his arms on the sill. 

Once Martin composes himself, he gives Jon a shrug, a little smirk. “Well, maybe I was curious about the ‘spooky witch’ living all alone at the edge of the woods… But then I met him. He doesn’t seem so scary to me.” 

“Oh, no?”

“He did make me tea, so I think he’s proven himself to be a perfectly polite fellow.”

Jon doesn’t know what to say, so he merely puts a hand on his outgoing basket. “Well, this is for you. Obviously.” 

“And this is for you,” Martin says with a smile, handing Jon his bundle. 

Before he can leave, Jon forces himself to say, “Thank you for the tea. It’s quite good.” 

“Oh! It- it was nothing,” Martin tells him. There’s a faint dash of pink on his cheeks, darkening his freckles. “I grow most of the leaves at home.” 

“Do you?”

“Yeah, I like to garden- Just a bit, though. I’m not especially good at growing anything actually useful.” 

Jon raises a brow. “Define useful.” 

“I dunno… I don’t grow any food, or something for medicine. Mostly just flowers and weeds and tea leaves.” 

“All of those can be useful,” Jon tells him. “You can make something out of anything, just about.”

For a second it looks like Martin might argue, but then he merely shrugs and says, “I suppose you’d be the one to know. You work with that sort of stuff all the time, right?”

“I’d consider it a profession at this point,” Jon says, his tone light. Then he says, “Anyway, I apologize for keeping you.”

“Oh, yeah, I should head off. Have a good rest of your day, Jon.”

“And you, Martin.”

* * *

One afternoon, Martin makes his way to the window just as the sky turns grey. Jon, who has started keeping a closer eye on the weather, makes sure to keep the window open that day. He’s too busy to chat, but it wouldn’t do to miss the rain and have another note or package ruined. 

When he has a moment to peek out into the other room, Jon is surprised to see Martin is still there. It’s raining now; he can hear it faintly on the roof, but had been busy enough to tune out the worst of it. As Jon approaches the courier, he can both see and hear through the window exactly how heavy the rain really is. 

“Sorry for the loitering,” Martin says, a faint blush on his cheeks. “I’ll be out of your hair as soon as there’s a bit of a break.” 

“It’s fine,” Jon tells him, wiping his hands on the front of his apron. He adjusts his glasses, noting with interest the vibrant nature of the package Martin has come to deliver. There are a few spell components he’s eager to get his hands on. “You best come in and sit,” he finds himself saying. “I don’t think the rain is going to let up anytime soon, and better you stay dry in here than get drenched when it could be avoided.”

“Oh! Are you sure that’s okay?”

“I wouldn’t make the offer otherwise,” Jon tells him. “I’ll be busy, but I’m sure you’ll be fine on the couch?”

“Y-yeah, of course. Thank you.” 

Martin comes inside, leaving his damp shoes in the cluttered doorway. “There wasn’t supposed to be rain today,” he mutters, untying his cloak. “There’s a woman in town — friend of mine — who can do a bit of weather-reading. Skies were meant to be clear all day, apparently.” 

“I suppose you’re lucky you made it to the window in time, then.”

“Definitely! Thanks again.”

“It’s no trouble. You can sit here. I’d offer you something to drink, but I really must be getting back to my work.” Jon takes a few steps back to the other room, his mind already checking and double-checking what needs to be done with the potion he’s brewing. Just before he’s too far, though, he hesitates and adds, “If you’re really peckish, I suppose you can help yourself… Just, um, don’t make a mess, please.”

He doesn’t hear Martin’s reply, already shutting the door. It wouldn’t do to let himself get distracted anymore than he already has been.

When Jon eventually re-emerges, he notes that Martin did, in fact, help himself to the kitchen. There’s tea set out on the table next to the couch. An extra cup rests near Martin’s, empty. The courier twists around when he hears Jon approaching. “Would you like me to pour you some?” 

“I’ve got it,” Jon replies, finding his voice oddly weak. He pours himself a cup and sits across from Martin, balancing his saucer on one knee. 

The fear of an awkward silence is very real, but Martin seamlessly picks up their previous conversation, as if Jon hadn’t abandoned him for — he glances at one of his clocks — nearly fifty minutes. “There have been a lot of unexpectedly rainy days, actually,” Martin tells him. “Sasha’s usually really accurate when she gives us her predictions.” 

“The weather is not so easily known,” Jon says, shrugging with one shoulder. “Of all things in this world, it’s one of the most volatile.” 

“Well, sure, but we’ve always had pretty consistent weather here in Fairside, don’t you think?”

“The region is known for it,” Jon concedes. 

“Right. Summers are warm but never too hot, except for a couple of weeks. The springtime can be rainy, but that’s not usually until about a month has passed, you know? I guess it’s just strange to see so much of it this early.”

“I’ll admit, it’s been a bit of a bother. Certainly hasn’t made harvesting things any easier.”

“Oh, I know! I’ll tell you, my poor garden hasn’t been enjoying all the extra water in the slightest.”

The conversation goes on, shifting from the weather to gardening to this and that. All too soon, the rain begins its departure, and Martin insists he should get going.

Before he can, though, Jon asks if he can update his supply list. It’s just one small, quick addition, but he makes sure to fold it up tightly so Martin can’t see. Martin heads off, the hood of his cloak growing speckled with the last remnants of the storm. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm... I wonder what Jon's planning?


	4. It Shows Itself in Simple Acts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon makes something for Martin, which leads to a conversation about magic.

The not-quite-seasonal bouts of rain persist. Sometimes Martin arrives at the house before the clouds even begin to form, but most often Jon finds him hiding beneath the window awning, and so he is often forced to invite the man inside. 

The third time this happens, once Martin has removed his damp cloak and shoes, already making his way toward the kitchen, Jon gathers his nerve. “I made something for you,” he tells Martin. Always easiest, he thinks, to be blunt about it. 

Martin looks so taken aback that Jon can’t help but huff a laugh and ask, “What?” 

“I- No, sorry! I just, um, I wasn’t expecting… You made something for me? Really?” 

Jon, somewhat uncomfortable with the level of pure incredulity in Martin’s tone, shuffles carefully on his feet. He’s using a cane today; the frequent rain has been hurting his left hip and knee as of late. “It’s nothing much, don’t get so worked up over it.”

He retreats to the back room, partially to escape Martin’s awed look, but mostly to retrieve the gift. When Martin takes it from his hand, Jon explains, “It’s a new cloak. I put a spell on it, so it should repel water. It’s also a bit bigger than the one you have now. Oh, and I had to sew them in myself, so I apologize if their quality isn’t the best, but there are pockets on the inside as well.” 

While he’s speaking, Martin unfolds the cloak. It’s a warm, earthy brown color that, in descending crescents, fades to deep blue. The hem is lined with a brighter blue-grey trim, while the inside of the cloak is a soft cream color. In Martin’s hands, the fabric looks sturdy but sleek. He can’t seem to stop running his palm over it, watching the material catch the light of the surrounding candles. “This is… This is beautiful! It- it’s too much! Jon, how much did this cloak even cost?”

“Oh, originally it wasn’t so different from the one you already have; the cloak itself wasn’t worth much, so please don’t worry.” 

“But… but the colors, and the design… It’s so lovely...” 

“It didn’t look like that before,” Jon explains. “That’s typically part of the transfiguration process; the feathers I used influenced its appearance.” 

“Feathers?”

“I used duck feathers in the spell,” Jon tells him. He steps a bit closer, just enough to catch part of the cloak and rub it between two fingers, scrutinizing his handiwork. “Duck feathers are pulling most of the weight here, but I also included coriander and garlic, and midnight zest to help it hold.” 

“You made this cloak out of all that?” 

“Potion making and spellcraft are… very different,” Jon says, “but while I certainly prefer and feel most comfortable with potions, a spell like this one isn’t particularly complicated. It only took a bit of extra care in making sure things measured out alright. In any case, it should keep you dry, which is the main point. Duck feathers are usually coated in a sort of oil, which helps them repel water.” 

While he speaks, Martin tries on the cloak. There’s a simple silver clasp to secure the front. Jon feels relief rush over him when he sees that the cloak is, indeed, long enough to cover most of Martin’s large frame. The hood is a bit bigger than his old one, too, allowing for more cover and visibility. 

“This is really amazing, Jon, thank you so much!” Martin tells him earnestly. “I… I really wish I knew anything about magic, or had some of my own, so I could give you something even half as good as this in return.”

“There’s no need to do that,” Jon mutters, stepping away to ruin any chance Martin might have of seeing the way his cheeks darken. “I’ll have to correct you on that other claim, though: you have magic, of course you do.”

“What? No I don’t.” Martin pulls the cloak carefully off his shoulders, now inspecting one of the inner pockets, even as he glances up at Jon with wide eyes. “My mum could use it, a bit, I think. But I’ve never shown any ability.”

“Not being able to use magic doesn’t mean you don’t have it,” Jon tells him, one brow raised. He feels a bit taken aback. “You really don’t know this? Did your mother never explain?”

“Sorry,” Martin replies, looking small and sheepish.

Jon curses himself, offering a raised hand and shake of the head to Martin. “No, it’s… I understand, I suppose. This is relatively basic knowledge, but I guess it’s no surprise you haven’t been told.” That’s a bit of a lie — especially now that Martin admitted to having a mother who could use her magic. Jon couldn’t imagine his grandmother failing to explain anything to him, even before he started showing. 

“Could you tell me?” Martin asks, heading for the couch. “I’m really quite curious, now. I mean, how on earth do you start with duck feathers and end up with this?” 

Jon lowers himself into what has now become his usual spot. Outside, the rain picks up. Wind gently bats the windowpanes, but there’s no threat of them being thrown open, nor of the roof leaking. It almost feels cozy, sitting here, the rumbling white noise of the storm a constant reminder of his and Martin’s distance from everything else. 

After taking a moment to gather his thoughts, Jon explains, “The basics aren’t especially difficult to parse. Everything in the world has magic; it’s fundamental. It exists in humans, animals, the plants, the earth, water, wind, etcetera. 

“The only true difference between you and me is that I have enough innate magic to exercise my influence on the world around me. You have magic, but… how should I put this… your natural reserve is too low. It would take something extraordinary to draw it out of you, and in any case, that would likely be dangerous.”

“How does using magic work, then?” 

Jon ponders the best way to explain, then asks, “You’ve witnessed the effects of magnets, haven’t you?”

“Magnets? Yes.” 

“Magic sort of works the same way. Imagine the magic inside of us is a magnet. Every magnet has a north and south pole — in this, opposites attract, while likes repel. The magic inside of me is a bit like a large magnet, and I have enough of a pull to influence the magic around me. Sometimes, my magic is easily influenced, or can easily influence, something else. At other times, it’s more difficult for me to engage with a type of magic, in the way that two magnets might naturally repel each other. It’s not a perfect, one-to-one metaphor, but I’m hoping it allows you a better grasp on the concept.”

Martin nods along. He seems genuinely interested in Jon’s words, clearly trying his best to follow along. Jon can feel himself getting more enthused as he speaks. 

“Following this framework, we could say that your magic is like a much smaller magnet in comparison: easily influenced by the force of magic around you, but unable to do much on its own. You can’t really fight back or try to exert control on anything, simply because you don’t have enough magic. So, while it’s still a part of you, it seems inert and thus absent. 

“Everything has magic, but the degree to which we can use our magic is almost entirely dependent on how much of it we have at birth. This is why the ability to use magic is seen as hereditary. There are exceptions, of course.”

“I… I think I understand,” Martin says. He seems to remember something, then, asking with a curious expression, “Is that why Sasha said I make a good anchor?” 

Jon jolts a bit in surprise. “You’ve been someone’s anchor before?”

“Yeah. One time, Sasha was asked to predict what the next year’s worth of crop yields would be… The council needed the information for… I dunno, something or other. You know, the sort of things big, important people worry about. In any case, Sasha needed to do a difficult Seeing spell in order to get the most accurate reading. She asked me to help, because I would make a good anchor. Didn’t really explain why, though I’ll admit I didn’t really ask for details at the time. I just wanted to help her out, mostly — she seemed proper stressed over the whole thing.”

“And the spell worked?”

“We’re only just to spring, of course, but so far things look good! From what I heard, the surrounding towns and villages had a lot of success with their first yields for spring. I think the rain threw us off a bit here, but nothing dire.” 

Jon leans back, resting his cane on his lap, and nods. “That’s good,” he says, though his mind was beginning to wander. He hadn’t met this Sasha, but Martin had mentioned her more than a few times. She sounded relatively skilled in her spellcraft and divination especially. “The people… They don’t mind someone like Sasha so close by?”

“I think it’s been better, over the last couple of years,” Martin tells him. His tone is a little odd, soft but imploring in some way Jon can’t quite understand. “I think… Well, your grandmother did a lot of good, while she was alive. I remember folks sometimes saying this or that about ‘witches’, or whoever else could use magic… But really, it seems a lot more normal nowadays, even if I still don’t see much of it myself.” 

“Hm.”

“But, Jon, do you mind explaining how anchors work? You said I didn’t have enough magic to do anything with it… so why was I able to do something like that for Sasha?”

“Can you tell me what, exactly, Sasha had you do?”

“I didn’t do much of anything,” Martin insists, glancing away and shrugging. “Mostly just sat near her while she stared at a mirror on the wall. We held hands, and while she was staring and reciting the spell — I think it was a spell? — in a language I didn’t know, I remember feeling a sort of… _tug_ , or something. It wasn’t super noticeable, at first. By the time it started aching a little, Sasha was finished with what she was doing. She just thanked me and said she had to write down all that she’d learned, so she didn’t have time to really talk about it or explain anything to me.”

“Ah. Well, anchors as a concept are mostly straightforward. As I said, everyone has magic in them. This means that, even if they can’t influence the world around them with their magic, it can still be affected by outside forces. Anchors are…” Jon fiddles with the cord on his glasses, thinking. “They… Well, the name gives it away, really: they anchor someone, so that they don’t get lost in whatever spell they’re casting. Sometimes, when someone has to use a particularly intensive or difficult spell, it can become very dangerous.

“...For example: imagine I must execute a spell. It will take longer than an hour — perhaps several — to finish. In order to accomplish this task, I will likely utilize a lot of my magic. However, running too low on your magic reserves is extremely dangerous; it can result in serious mental or physical issues, sometimes to a fatal degree. 

“Now, let’s use the magnets again. I am a small magnet, and I am trying to influence a much bigger magnet. My success with the spell relies on my ability to be just close enough to the big magnet to work _with_ it, to work the magic in the way I want. However, that sort of stability is impossible to maintain indefinitely. If someone gets too deep into a spell, or if they’re careless, they can, essentially, be overtaken by the magic they’re attempting to work with.” 

A gentle exclamation of, “Oh, dear,” from Martin is enough to make Jon pause, mostly in amusement. He also can’t help noticing how dry his mouth feels, then. Licking his lips, he starts lifting himself from the couch. “I’m going to make a pot; would you like some tea?” 

Quick as a hare, Martin is on his feet and in Jon’s kitchen. “I’ll make it!”

“But-”

“You can sit down, it’s alright,” Martin tells him. “Think of it as a thank you for the cloak.” He tosses a look over his shoulder, one that is gently but firmly insisting Jon does as he suggests. With a frown and a grumble, Jon sits back in his chair. The dull throbbing of his left flank eases, just slightly. He fiddles with the grip on his cane and tries not to dwell on the effects of Martin’s quiet, easy kindness. 

Once they both have warm tea, Jon continues. “To answer your question, Martin: in essence, an anchor’s job is to hold the spellcaster steady. It works best when the spellcaster and the anchor are decently close, or related. Spending a lot of time around someone, it sort of… syncs your magic, in a sense. Makes the two more compatible. So your friend Sasha must have recognized that your magic was well-suited to hers, enough that you could act as an anchor while she worked on her Seeing spell.”

“So I mostly just held her steady?” Martin asks. “Kept her with one foot in reality, as it were, so she didn’t get… what, sucked into the magic?” 

“So she wouldn’t be lost, yes,” Jon nods. He takes a sip of his tea; it’s the brew Martin originally gifted him, and has since replenished. “To be an anchor is a great responsibility, even if it seems easy. She must have trusted you very much, especially when you weren’t so well-informed.” 

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Martin says with a blush and a light chuckle. “We’re friends, sure, but I’m certain Sasha doesn’t think that much of me. She probably just thought I was the most convenient, to be honest; convenient and eager to help out, even with barely any information beforehand. Which… I mean, yeah, I guess she was right,” he laughs. 

Jon finds he wants to argue, but it’s not as if he knows anything about this Sasha, or really anything about Martin’s actual viability as an anchor. So, instead, he sips his tea, enjoying its warmth, before turning the discussion to a different subject.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The 'magic system' for this fic, if you can call it that, is loosely inspired by several different sources... I went into this fic having a pretty freeform idea of how magic works, so it was a fun and interesting challenge finding a way to put it into words without establishing hard-n-fast rules. 
> 
> Hopefully Jon did a good idea of explaining some things! 
> 
> Once again, thank you all very much for reading~
> 
> (oh! and special thanks to kiore, who suggested the duck that martin's cloak is based off of: fulvous whistling ducks!)


	5. Of Sour Rind and Sweetness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Martin share a midnight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanna take the chance to thank those who have beta read/are currently reading through the document for this fic! 
> 
> I also want to thank everyone who's been keeping up with the fic~ Thanks for reading! It seems some plot has snuck its way into this chapter, so things may be picking up soon...

One windy day, when Jon can only exchange a quick hello to a harried Martin, who’s half an hour late starting his route, a letter arrives. 

Actually, it’s a scroll, which seems a bit archaic, even to Jon. Still, there’s certainly something lofty and compelling about receiving a scroll wrapped in deep red twine, especially when Jon already knows who must have sent it. 

He’s not pleased, exactly, with the summons, but at least he has time to prepare. He is to accompany his next week’s shipment of goods — not only that, he is to be escorted. Jon stares at those words for a while, frowning. He’s not sure what distresses him more: the idea that Martin won’t be the one trudging up the hill to see him that day, or the fact that _that_ had been his first concern, not to mention the level of disappointment he’d felt. 

Jon rolls the scroll back up, ties it again, then places it in a small vase in his workroom where he’s sure to see it every day. 

* * *

A thunderstorm descends upon the region early in one morning, before the sun has even had a chance to show itself, and Jon is woken by rain pounding angrily against his windows. The trees outside shiver and groan in the face of unseasonably terrible weather. 

He’s deeply concerned, though truthfully not surprised, to see Martin making his way up through the howling wind and rain a few hours later. Unwilling to leave his window open, Jon had painted the image of an eye on a piece of paper using his watercolors, putting it in the jar hanging outside and making sure the lid was tight. It’s a bit hard to concentrate on the spell as he’s working, but Jon manages to catch it when Martin appears in view of the painting. Through glass and raindrops, his visage is warped and murky. Jon pauses in his chopping and fully closes one eye so he can get a better picture. 

Unexpectedly, for the very first time, Martin makes a beeline towards the front door rather than the window. He’s moving slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid of dropping whatever’s underneath his cloak. The storm’s dominion of the sky is absolute, leaving everything beneath it dark and cast in grey; it’s impossible to make out what, exactly, Martin might be holding beneath the fabric, or his expression under the large hood of his cloak. 

Jon severs his connection with the painting, grabs his cane, and wipes his hand on his apron as he goes to meet Martin. He opens the front door just as Martin is turning the last corner. “Are you alright?” he asks, raising his voice to be heard over all the rain and wind. 

Martin doesn’t answer at first, just stumbles inside. Jon grimaces at the mud and crushed greenery being trekked across his floors, but at least there’s very little water, once the remaining drops slide off Martin’s cloak. Jon gives himself a mental pat on the back — his work seems to be holding up well, if the obvious dryness of Martin and his attire is anything to go by. 

“Sorry for the mess!” Martin says as he shuffles, still slightly hunched, toward the kitchen. “Um, and sorry, again, but uh- You don’t have any animal allergies, do you?” 

Jon can only think to ask, “Which animal?” in the face of such a random inquiry. 

“Cats?”

Faster than his knee would like, Jon walks into the kitchen to look at Martin imploringly. “I’m fine with cats. What’s going on?” 

Finally, Martin reveals what’s beneath his cloak. In one hand is the handle of a basket, wrapped in thick cloth; Jon can tell from the way that Martin bears the burden that whatever’s in the delivery is unusually heavy. In Martin’s other arm, tucked in the crook of his elbow and held close to his chest, is a large greyish cat. A very familiar cat, actually. 

“Admiral! What on earth were you doing outside?” 

“Oh, you know them?” 

Setting aside his cane, Jon holds out his hands, and Martin eagerly passes the feline along. The Admiral’s long grey coat is covered in damp spots, mostly at the feet and tail — he must have been hiding, caught in the rain, when Martin found him. “This is The Admiral. He belongs to a friend of mine.” 

“Oh gosh, I didn’t cat-nap him, did I? I’ve never seen another house near here.”

“No, no, she lives on the opposite end of Fairside. Nowhere near here.” 

“I heard him calling from underneath a big bush,” Martin explains, putting the basket down in its usual spot on the kitchen counter. As Jon assists the Admiral in drying off his fur, humming a very gentle spell to dispel the water with one hand, he watches Martin seamlessly transition into pulling out the tea leaves and tiny cakes. A recent visit had revealed that both men quite enjoy sweets in small amounts. Jon ordered the cakes for just such an occasion not long after.

As his hand reaches The Admiral’s stomach, Jon discovers something caught up in the feline’s fur. A bit of careful detangling reveals something quite like a burr, only softer, and much too pale to be natural. He can’t help but smile. “You see, Martin, My friend — Georgie is her name — likes to send The Admiral over with messages.” 

“Oh! Is it faster to send a letter via cat?” Martin asks as he sets some water to boil. On one plate, he has already arranged a couple of the cakes. 

“On days that aren’t so rainy, I would say yes.” 

“I see. But how does he carry a letter over?”

Jon holds up the tiny burr. “It’s transformed,” he explains, “so that the Admiral can carry it over in his fur.”

Martin looks impressed. “That’s clever! By the way, Jon, do you have any fruit to go with the cakes?” 

Jon thinks it over as he sets The Admiral down on the floor. The cat meows at him, knocks his head against Jon’s shin, then departs for his spot by the fireplace. “You know, I think midnights would pair well, if you want one?” 

“I- I’m sorry, a what?”

“A midnight.” 

“What’s that?” 

Jon scrunches his eyebrows. “You’ve never heard of a midnight before?” 

“Um… no? I mean, um, obviously… like, the time? But you’re saying it like it’s a… is that a fruit?” 

“...Yes.” Jon wishes he still had his cane in hand, something he could hold and fiddle with. Instead he wrings his hands, gently running his fingertips along the scars there: the remnants of an old burn across one palm, and faintly silver pockmarks decorating the other. “I can show you, if you like?” 

“Yeah! I’d love to see one, whatever it is.” 

Jon nods, then quickly goes upstairs. He passes the window at first, to put his note from Georgie on his nightstand so he remembers to read it later. Then he gets some of the special treats for The Admiral from his stash in the closet before heading back downstairs. Halfway down, he pauses at the window, frowning at the heavy rain falling against the glass. 

Ah, well, it can’t be helped. He’s about to eat a midnight anyway, so Jon figures there’s not much harm in using a spell for this. With a few quick words and a sharp gesture of one hand, Jon repels the rain by about two feet, until there’s a shallow sphere of space just outside the window where no rain falls. Jon opens the window and reaches out to pluck one of the midnights, but hesitates. Should he get two? No… one would be enough. But what if Martin doesn’t want to share? 

Jon thinks about cutting through the midnight’s skin, gently pulling apart the segmented center. He thinks about giving Martin a wedge. He reaches out and plucks the biggest midnight he can reach. It’s just slightly beyond the bounds of his spell, so Jon’s hand comes back a bit wet, but he’s determined not to mind. Once the window is closed and secured, Jon flicks his wrist to end the spell and hurries downstairs. 

Martin is all set in front of the fire, cakes and tea laid out on the long wooden table. The Admiral has wandered away from the fire and is currently sniffing Martin’s leg. 

Jon’s usual spot is on the opposite side of the table from Martin. It’s facing slightly away from the fire. In his mind, Jon justifies his choice to sit beside Martin on the couch as a practical one — there’s more light and warmth to be found, here, and it’ll be easier for them to share their food. With great effort, Jon does not dwell on the fact that this is the closest they’ve ever been, or that he can now count the individual freckles on Martin’s cheeks, or that he can see the way the fire makes Martin’s eyes glow like little suns. Nor does he acknowledge the clear surprise on Martin’s face at his unexpected proximity. Instead Jon presents the fruit he plucked like it’s some sort of priceless jewel. “This,” he says, “is a midnight.”

“Oh! It looks a bit like a tangerine or something.”

“It’s… similar.” With practiced ease, Jon digs the edge of his thumbnail into the thick skin of the fruit. “These are the reason this house was built in this exact spot. They’re a very rare fruit; there’s only one tree in the entire region, and it’s growing against the northern wall of this cottage.” 

Martin leans forward, just slightly, with interest. “Really? What makes them so special?” 

“They’re full of magic,” Jon tells him. The process of peeling the skin off the midnight soothes his nerves somewhat. Letting himself lean back into the couch, Jon gradually relaxes as he explains. “As I told you before, magic is present in all things. Midnights are special, though — they draw magic directly from the earth. It’s fuel to them in the same way other plants grow from water or the sun. This means that midnights have the highest concentration of magic of any other food that humans can eat.” 

Abruptly, The Admiral decides he’s tired of being ignored. Martin lets out a startled gasp as the cat hops into his lap. “Hello there,” he says, and offers his hand for inspection. The Admiral wastes no time, gently bumping his head into Martin’s waiting palm. As he gently scratches the cat’s ears, Martin asks, “Just a moment — didn’t you say before, when you gave me my cloak, that you used… midnight-something when you were making it?”

“Yes, that’s right!” Jon sits up straighter, inordinately pleased that Martin remembered what he had said. “Midnight zest is quite useful for potions and spells. It acts as a sort of bonding agent, typically increasing the persistence of a potion, usually, and can aid in helping with resistance when spellcrafting.” 

“Cool... And you can eat the fruit itself?” 

“Yes, it’s safe to eat. I typically have one or two during the week, usually on my resting days.” There’s none of the usual bitterness in Jon’s voice, but Martin chuckles anyway. He’s listened to Jon grumble over resting days before. But, as Jon has explained, it can be dangerous to continually use magic without breaks. The days of rest that Jon observes are a bare minimum practice for anyone who uses magic on a daily basis, especially the amount that Jon needs to in order to work. “They make it so the magic you possess can be used more effectively and efficiently. They can also replenish magic reserves in a pinch; not completely, mind you, but enough to get you through the day.” 

“That’s really neat. How come I’ve never heard of these before, if they’re so special?”

Jon takes the time to think over his response as he rests the midnight rind on a saucer. In his hands, the fruit is dark and soft. It takes hardly any effort to gently pry the segments apart with his finger, making a clean cut down the middle. He hands one half to Martin, who accepts it with the hand he isn’t using to pet The Admiral. Martin says, “Thanks,” in a quiet, sweet way that makes Jon feel too warm in front of the fire. 

Clearing his throat, Jon tries to continue. “The short answer is that midnights are a bit rare. I don’t know the exact history behind it all, or the technicalities of the horticulture involved in growing them, but trees like the one right outside are unusual finds. There simply isn’t enough of the fruit to attempt any form of mass harvest or distribution. So, if one is found, a building like this one is often constructed near or around it, so that someone who actually works routinely with their magic can make use of them… For the greater benefit of their community, of course.”

“That makes sense, I guess. So that’s why you live here, rather than somewhere back in Fairside?” 

“...Partly. My grandmother lived in the town proper, but she had permission to take midnights from the tree as she needed them. She would often send me up the hill to collect a few every first resting day. No one was living in the cottage, then.” 

Jon takes a moment to eat a slice. The familiar taste feels comforting on his tongue, and he quickly follows it up with a bite from one of the small cakes. The two textures together mix well, he finds, greatly pleased. As he’s taking a sip of his tea, Jon watches Martin follow his lead, awkwardly using one thumb to split a segment off from his half before bringing it up to his mouth. 

He bites down halfway; Jon can see the small spray of juice as Martin’s teeth break the skin. There are sparks of magic there, too, bright green where the fruit itself is dark. Martin makes a surprised humming sound as he chews. “This is yummy,” he mumbles. 

“Yes, they’re good.” 

Martin swallows, lips curled in an impish smile. “Usually things that are good for you taste pretty bad, don’t they?”

Jon chuckles. “Lucky for us, most fruit is sweet. Try it with the cake.” 

Martin eats, and Jon continues his story. “When my grandmother passed, I knew I wanted to move here. It was, if nothing else, convenient to be right next to the tree. I also… Well, I didn’t really want to stay in the old house.” 

At this, Jon falters slightly. The things he feels about his childhood, about his grandmother and her death… They’re more complicated than anything, even sitting with Martin and sharing a midnight. It’s been several years since Jon made the choice to bring himself here so he could try moving past it; on most days, the strange feeling that might be grief — he’s honestly not sure — doesn’t even bother him. Then there are those moments where he’s mixing a potion and isn’t sure what to do, or he spends too much time studying plants outside when he should be focusing on gathering ingredients, and all he can think about is his grandmother. 

It’s simply too much to say. Luckily for Jon, it doesn’t seem like he needs to. When he looks askance and helplessly shrugs, Martin just nods and smiles. There’s sympathy in his eyes. After taking a drink of his tea, he says, “I think I get it. I moved out of my old house a couple years back, when I came to Fairside. I’d been there my whole life… and sometimes I miss it. But a lot of the time, I don’t? It’s… weird. Kinda complicated.” 

“Yeah…” Jon fiddles with his glasses, then says, “Mostly, though, I wanted to be alone.”

To this, Martin doesn’t say much, only eats the rest of his midnight slice while he pets The Admiral. Jon finds himself more than a bit grateful for the lull in conversation. He tries to settle into the silence, tries to let it become comfortable, to enjoy his food and his company. 

At some point, after he’s served them both more tea, Martin perks up as if he’s just remembered something. “You know, I’ve heard they’re having a meeting day at town hall, before the council,” he tells Jon. “I also noticed my schedule changed up a bit — it looks like I won’t be put on my usual route on that same day. Is something happening?”

Jon tries not to deflate or sigh, but his displeasure must be obvious, because Martin instantly tries to back off. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry or anything-” 

“No, no, it’s fine. I’m not bothered by you, I promise.” Jon rolls his eyes. “I just hate being summoned.” 

“Summoned?”

“I was formally requested by the council to see them,” Jon explains. “I’m to be escorted, in fact, which is why you’ve been rescheduled. I suspect whoever they’re sending to drag me down the hill is going to be delivering my package instead of you.”

Martin’s expression seems caught between a sympathetic smile and a grimace. “Is going to a council meeting usually so awful?” 

“It just means they need me for something,” Jon gripes. “Most likely something tedious and time-consuming. And I’m sure it’ll have to be on a deadline, while I’m working on all my other orders, in spite of any personal projects I might be busy with.”

“I never realized they had you do so much. I mean, you always send back a fair amount of stuff with your bundles, but still.” 

“It’s not…” Jon’s righteous aggravation wilts a bit, and he can only shrug as he takes a sip of tea. “Nothing I do is impossible to accomplish. I’m never, ah, in over my head. And for what I receive in return — solitude, a space to work, all the resources I need more or less provided for me… The time and the attention aren’t things I’m not willing to give.” 

Martin nods, finishing his midnight. The Admiral _mrrups_ and finally leaves his lap, slinking across the couch to climb all over Jon, who scowls even as he goes for the feline’s cheeks. Jon follows the line of his cheekbones with both thumbs, smoothing the thick fur so that the Admiral’s eyes scrunch up with pleasure. “Hello, good boy. Have you finally deigned to give your host some attention?” 

The Admiral meows; Martin chuckles. Jon lets himself smile and settle into the warm glow of the fire on their teacups; the distant murmur of the rain outside; Martin’s soft edges, his presence welcomed. 


	6. Well Wound & Winding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon meets the council, and others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you very much to everyone who offered to beta read!

The day arrives for Jon’s summons. He wakes up and prepares himself with methodical, grim diligence. The dress he wears is plain and comfortable, reaching midway down his shins. The drizzle outside brings a chill for which his sleeves are welcomed, and the high neck makes him feel… secure. It’s not unlike something his grandmother would’ve worn, he realizes halfway through braiding his hair, and is entirely unsure of how he feels about that. His shoes are simple, dark boots. His shawl is bespelled, light, adding a bit of color to the muted tones of his outfit. 

It’s been quite a while since Jon has gone into town, and he’s determined not to look like some bedraggled oddity that’s crawled out of the woods. However he might feel about his grandmother and her legacy — the one that nips at his heels, relentlessly; the one that settles heavy on his shoulders while he works — Jon refuses to do anything to endanger the goodwill or reputation which persists where she does not. Jon will look professional, he will _be_ professional. He is the grandson of a respected potion maker and spellcrafter, so he must act like it. 

With a wide-brim umbrella in one hand and a sturdy cane in the other, Jon waits outside for his escort. The rain isn’t so bad today, though at this point it does strike Jon as odd how it _persists_. It’s truly unexpected for the season; Jon is surprised he hasn’t heard more about instances of flooding nearby. As he wonders, idly, how far the weather reaches, Jon’s eventually distracted by a figure making their way up the long slope towards him. 

He doesn’t recognize the woman at all, but that’s not really surprising — Jon knows maybe five people who still live in Fairside personally, Martin included. The escort is tall, with chin-length blonde hair and a very no-nonsense look about her. Other than an umbrella, she’s carrying nothing with her, which causes Jon to frown as she approaches.

“Do you not have my delivery?” he can’t help but ask, already exhausted by the first of many irritations he’s sure to encounter that day. 

The woman makes a face at him. “Morning to you, too,” she says in a flat, yet somehow almost mocking tone. Then, “Don’t know anything about any delivery. Just me, here to fetch you. Come on, then.” 

Jon nearly sputters. He wants to argue, wants to focus his indignance somewhere, but the woman has already turned away to head back down the hill. With great reluctance, Jon follows her. Really, he shouldn’t even be surprised — _of course_ the council wouldn’t send his supplies with the escort. No, no, that would be too damn sensible. Obviously they’d want to keep it, to ensure he comes along without a fuss. Now he’ll have to carry it back all on his own. Jon’s already dreading the sort of configuration he’ll have to work out just to carry a heavy basket along with an umbrella and his cane. The trek back home is going to be absolutely insufferable. 

Their walk to town is quiet. Jon isn’t sure how glad he is for that. On the one hand, he’s definitely not in the mood to make small talk. In fact, he’s sure if the woman did try talking to him, he’d have nothing good to say. He’s never been great with pleasantries or casual conversation with strangers, not even when he’s in the best of moods. On the other hand, though, Jon dislikes having to stew in his own frustration. Part of him wishes... 

He wishes Martin was here, actually. At least then he could have someone to commiserate with. Martin would listen, and he’d probably even laugh along, maybe say something nice or find some way to distract Jon from the anxiety growing in his bones, making his knee twinge. 

But Martin isn’t here, not right now. So the walk is quiet. It remains so until they’re nearly in town, just a few yards left before they break the treeline and hit cobblestone streets. Only then does his escort ask, “What’s your name, anyway?” 

Jon’s so startled that he nearly trips, and he’s fiercely glad he’s been trailing behind the woman this entire time. Her pace has remained pretty consistent, and not once has she looked back at Jon; he’s sure she could have easily left him behind if she wanted to. “I- I’m- My name is Jon.” 

“Yeah. Sims, right?” 

“Yes.” 

“Like that old goat from a few years ago,” she says. 

Jon bristles. Before he can help himself, he marches until they’re walking side-by-side. “My grandmother was not some _old goat_ ,” he snaps. “She was a healer and a great magic user.” 

“Huh, so you do have some bite to you,” says the escort. She’s glances down at him, smirk showing a flash of teeth. “Can see the resemblance, now.”

“What, you knew my grandmother?”

“Sure. Got in a lot of scraps, needed fancy magic bandaging as much as anyone else working in the guard. She supplied us. Got to meet her, a couple of times.” She shrugs one shoulder. “Guess she was good at her job, sure. Seemed like any other stern old lady to me, though.” 

Jon opens his mouth to say- something. He doesn’t really know, actually. So he shuts his mouth and simply stares, unsure of how he feels. 

“Name’s Daisy,” the escort says. “Not that you asked. Y’know, she didn’t really have many manners either.” 

Jon flinches, slightly, mostly from some strange sense of embarrassment. Is it for himself and his behavior, or for his grandmother? “Well, my grandmother, she could be… brusque?”

To his surprise, this earns a low, clipped chuckle from Daisy. “She sure was. In any case; sure I knew ‘bout you; everyone knows about little Sims living up in the witch’s house.” 

“Am I everything you were expecting?” Jon asks bitterly. 

Daisy, for the first time since they started their walk, shows some amount of real expression. Jon can tell it’s deliberately exaggerated, though — she even puts a finger to her chin and lifts her brows in a near-comic pantomime of thinking something over. Eventually she says, “No. Can’t say you are.” 

Their conversation ends abruptly as their shoes hit stone. As if a switch has flipped, Daisy’s back to her previous stoicism, resuming the quicker pace she’d been maintaining throughout their trek in the woods. Jon sighs, then follows, careful of where he places his cane.

Fairside is as it has always been: generally quiet, yet thrumming with life. Jon sees plenty of people milling about through the wide roads, umbrellas bobbing along, going about their daily business. Most of the residential areas are closer to the center of the town, whereas here, Jon can see the remnants of the market. Only a few stalls are set up; even some of the shops seem dim and unoccupied. He wonders how all the odd weather has affected businesses. 

Eventually they come to little stone staircases leading up into brick-and-mortar houses, built wide and sturdy with just enough space between them to share little gardens. Jon notices plenty of impromptu tarps and awnings have been installed by those desperate to save their delicate flowers from being overwatered. Still, most of what Jon sees is doing well enough, some vines absolutely thriving in the downpour, making their way up and up into the shingles and drainpipes. 

Stone, brick, creeping greenery; steel stair handrails and narrow alleys; tall dark street lamps, weedy cobblestone and dirt; this is Fairside. Just as Jon left it. He takes all the feelings inspired by seeing his childhood home and puts them in a little box, tucking it away to gather dust in the back of his mind. 

To reach the town hall, he and Daisy must cut through the round, open area that marks the absolute center of Fairside. Here, where cracked stone becomes weathered rock becomes choking grass, a tree grows. From what Jon understands — what his grandmother told him — the tree is the oldest mark of the town’s history. It was planted and sparked to life with the magic of those who settled in the region centuries ago. The thick, umber bark of the tree almost appears to have grown in subtly swirling patterns, while the leaves always sprout lush and green. It seems that the rain has done little to hinder the old tree’s ability to grow a new, healthy canopy, Jon notes with vague satisfaction. Second only to his grandmother, this tree has always been the most consistent and prominent figure in Jon’s life. Even now, as they walk past, he can practically hear its magic thrumming, can almost feel the way it pulses down into the earth, beneath the stone, the reach of old roots far and deep.

Town hall is, of course, standing tall before the tree. The wide, pale steps leading in seem unfairly daunting to Jon and his already aching knee. Daisy leads him towards the open doors, saying nothing about the extra seconds it takes him to catch up, nor the way he’s slightly winded. It’s a relief, at least, to finally be out of the rain. He pauses just inside to fold up his umbrella, taking in the high ceiling with some vague sense of nostalgia. He hasn’t been in the building for nearly five years. 

“This way,” Daisy directs him once he’s hung his umbrella on a hook with several others. Jon follows her through a door near the back. On the other side wait the council. They sit elevated a couple of feet, sitting upon a wide dais. Spread out and around the large room are easily movable wooden chairs, organized to function as pews. A handful of townsfolk with common complaints sit nearest to the back, patiently waiting for their turn to speak. Closer to the council members sit artisans and merchants with formal requests or complaints. No one looks back when the two of them enter, all focus centered on the woman standing before the council. She’s short, plump, and quite riled up. Jon’s eyebrows raise at the way she wags her fingers at the council while wrapping up what seems to have been a very long rant, “... You lot do little else but sit on your laurels watchin’ as Fairside slowly sinks into the ground. Something ought to be done! Shoulda been done the second week of all this accursed rain! Shoulda been done years ago!” 

Before her, watching, listening, are the council. There are five in total, but only one of them matters: Gertrude Robinson, seated front and center. She watches the woman with dark, serious eyes, fingers woven together. She takes in the complaints being flung her way with the same severity as someone inspecting a particularly resilient type of weed. How does one get their fingers in, grip enough of the rot hiding underneath, in order to successfully rip it from the good earth below? How does one accomplish such a task without disturbing the rest of the garden? 

At last, the woman’s rant ends. Gertrude offers a single, decisive nod. “Your concerns have been heard and recognized by the council,” she says. “Rest assured that the issues you’ve brought up have already been on the council’s thoughts. We understand it is our duty to serve the people, and so in this I agree there is much work to be done, and promise that steps are being taken to take care of the damages.” Then, after waiting a moment to let her words sink in, something changes just slightly in Gerturde’s demeanor: the near imperceptible sag of her shoulders, the most vague hint of familiar exasperation in her eyes. She gestures toward the door. “Now, Mrs. Marrien, if you would be so kind as surrendering the floor to someone else, so that they may bring us their concerns? It’s been nearly ten minutes.” 

Mrs. Marrien shows no hint of shame as she returns the nod, then turns with a flick of her skirt to walk out of the room. As she passes by, Jon sees the moment Gertrude realizes he and Daisy are there. Her gaze locks onto him, and he can’t help but feel like some sort of small animal caught out in the open by a hawk. “There you are.”

Turning briefly to a man sitting near the front, she says, “Forgive me, Mr. Thomas, but I’ll need to speak to Jonathan first.” Then she waves Jon over. “Come before the council, Jonathan. We have serious matters to discuss.” 

Jon bristles at the use of his full name. He would have preferred the distance of formalities, though he’s never enjoyed being called Mr. Sims, really. Still, it’s better than Gertrude Robinson addressing him with such familiarity. 

Nevertheless, Jon complies. He keeps his posture straight, tries not to waver, though his entire left side from the waist down is beginning to ache consistently; he feels very grateful for his cane. 

“Good afternoon,” Jon says once he’s standing before Gertrude and the council properly. He offers the slightest curtsy, tugging on his skirt as he bows, in a way similar to how he remembers his grandmother doing. “I am, as always, at the council’s service,” he recites.

“And we appreciate your cooperation and compliance,” Gertrude tells him. After a brief pause, she asks, “How are you, Jonathan?” 

Jon refuses to let the fact that he’s bothered show on his face or in his tone. He’s all too sure Gertrude knows anyway. “I’ve been well, Ms. Robinson, thank you for asking. Might I ask after the council?” 

“The council has been well. Of course, Jonathan, we did call you here for a reason. I’m sure I don’t have to ask if you’ve noticed the weather we’ve been having.”

Jon can’t help his sigh of relief. No matter how he feels about Gertrude by and large, this is one thing he has always admired about her: she’s never been one for wasting time. “I have.” 

“Well, this is the reason you were called today. The council would like to solicit your help in determining how to reduce the problems caused by all the rain. This last week has been spent assessing the extent of the existing damages and brainstorming various methods to mitigate the issues… However, there’s not currently any sign that the weather is going to be returning to anything resembling normal. 

“It occurred to us that there may be more magical methods of solving these problems.” Gertrude lifts one thin brow, eyes flashing. “We have much to discuss, Jonathan.” 

* * *

Almost an hour later, Jon flees the building as quickly as his leg — and luggage — will allow. It is, of course, still raining. By now the stone steps are slippery with puddles, and Jon has to be extra careful as he descends. It’s a bit of a nightmare, so bad he briefly considers abandoning his umbrella and using a spell to keep himself dry so he can free up his hand. 

Before he makes it off the stairs, though, Jon hears someone calling his name. “Jon? Jon!” 

If it had been an unfamiliar voice, Jon would have turned to them with the utmost reluctance, his face as blank as he could possibly make it despite his irritation. But when Jon turns, it’s with a swiftness that makes him teeter, just slightly, before he’s able to catch himself on his cane. Thank goodness it doesn't slip on the wet stone beneath him. With eyebrows raised in surprise, Jon blinks across the open courtyard and calls back, “Martin?”

“Hey!” Martin, who appears to have been walking with someone, briefly touches their arm before making his way over. He’s not in his usual courier clothes, instead sporting cable-knit sweater and more comfortable looking trousers. His umbrella is a bright spot of soft yellow against the dour backdrop of Fairside. “I can’t believe I caught you. Were- Ah, you were here for a council meeting, right?” 

Jon pushes the giddiness down- though, maybe not too far. He’s used to shoving it away so it can’t distract him, but it’s such a pleasant thing to feel after the day he’s had. So there’s no helping the way he steps closer to Martin, just a bit, as he rolls his eyes. “Yes, yes, that was today. I hope you appreciated the break in your busy schedule, Martin.”

The courier laughs lightly, looking a bit shy for some reason. From behind, Jon can see the other person approaching. He’s a tall man, nearly as tall as Martin, with wide shoulders. His outfit matches Martin’s in style, casual and easy, though notably tighter on his form. Something about the way he walks and looks at Jon with interest makes Jon adjust his armful of things self-consciously. 

Martin’s eyes are drawn to this movement. “Here, can I hold this for you?” He gestures to the large basket Jon had, at last, been allowed to take on his way out of town hall. 

On any other day, Jon would argue; even now, he feels the urge to be stubborn and deny assistance. Then he thinks about his walk home, how miserable it’s going to be, and decides a moment of respite before tackling that endeavor might give him a second wind. He’ll need it, especially with his hip and knee as bad as they are now. “Sure. Yes, thank you Martin.”

Jon relinquishes the basket, and Martin tucks it against his side just as the friend catches up and says, “Hullo there! You a friend of Martin’s?”

Not knowing quite what to say, Jon settles with, “I’m Jonathan Sims, yes.” 

“Woah, really?” The surprise and delight in the man’s face takes Jon aback some. “So you’re the Jon guy Martin keeps talking about?”

“...I, um, I suppose?” Jon says, unsure. “Maybe?”

“Gosh,” Martin sighs, his cheeks red. He gives his friend a slight shove, just enough to unsettle droplets from his umbrella to splatter on the ground. “You make me sound like a horrible gossip!” 

“Nuh-uh! I’m just saying you’ve talked about him before. This is the fellow who lives up on the hill, right?” 

“Yes.” Then, to Jon, he says with an apologetic air, “Sorry, I’ve mentioned a couple of our visits to my friends? I- um, well, I got very excited when you gave me my new cloak, so I told them about you.” 

“It’s fine,” Jon says, wondering if that’s true. “So, this is…?” 

“This is Tim!” Martin hastily explains, patting the man on one shoulder. “He works at the library, along with Sasha — you know, the one I told you about, who can predict the weather?” 

“Yes, I remember her.” Jon, whose hands are still holding his cane and umbrella, can only offer a slight curtsy. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.” 

“You’re a formal one, aren’t you?” Tim says with a chuckle. He returns the gentle bow, though. “Timothy Stoker, at your service.” 

Martin shakes his head. “Don’t take his word on that.”

“Hey,” Tim protests, pouting dramatically.

“Anyway!” Martin turns back to Jon. “Were you going to spend some time in Fairside, Jon, or just head home?”

“I’m on my way home,” Jon says. Unfortunately, he’s too tired to hide the fact that he’s tired. “I’ve just been given a… project, you could say. It’s going to be time-consuming, and I should try getting a head-start on it as soon as possible.” 

“Oh, okay,” Martin says, nodding. After a few awkward seconds, he jolts forward, just a bit. Jon can feel the way Martin’s umbrella bumps his own, can feel the vibrations all the way back in his hand. Alongside the patter of the rain, Martin’s voice gently asks, “Could I walk with you? Um, I just mean, it looks like you could use a bit of help… With the basket, I mean, you know?” 

“Ah.” Jon finds himself nodding before he’s fully processed what, exactly, Martin has just said. “Yes, that would be fine.” 

“Okay!” Martin smiles brightly down at him, then turns back to Tim. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, right Tim?” 

“Yeah, sure.” Jon peeks over Martin’s shoulder a bit, but it doesn’t seem like Tim is put out by his friend more or less ditching him. In fact, he offers a salute and a wink to them both as he turns away. “Don’t drown out there, lads!”

“Same for you,” Martin chuckles. Then he’s looking at Jon again with those warm eyes, that gentle look. The basket, full of potion materials and food, doesn’t seem to weigh much at all there, safely tucked in the crook of Martin’s arm. Jon realizes, slightly mortified, that he is a bit jealous of the basket. Martin’s voice cuts through his musings. “Shall we?” 

“Yes, yes. Come along then; this way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last, some new characters have entered the ring... and we've finally gotten our first look at Fairside!


	7. To Be Sought, To Be Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon immediately begins work on his difficult task. Luckily for him, Martin is there to make sure he doesn't take on too much by himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta-reader/commenters, as always uvu

Jon explains everything to Martin on the way up to his house. He doesn’t plan to, but when Martin politely inquires how the meeting went, Jon finds it spilling out of him before he can help himself. He used to have a lot more trouble talking to others… He wonders, idly, what has changed. Is it him? Or is it just Martin?

“Essentially, the weather has become enough of a problem that the council are coming to me for help.” Jon wrinkles his nose a bit. “Well, it may be more accurate to say they’re demanding I find a way to fix it.” 

“Really? But- is that something you can do?” 

Jon raises a brow. Martin blushes, shrugging. “Sorry, just, um, I mean- I get that you can use magic, which is grand, and I know you can do a lot of impressive things. But controlling the weather — or ‘fixing’ it, whatever — that seems like a big ask. Is that something that can be done by just one person?”

“I would suspect not. Which is why I’ll have to start doing some research.” Jon lets out a heavy sigh. “The council failed to offer any compensation for my assistance… I’ll have to figure out as much as I can while keeping up with my regular duties.”

“That’s not very fair,” Martin grumbles, but they both hear the meekness in his statement. There’s not much to be done about what the council decides is fair. “But I guess it does make sense. Keeping it from raining all season is kind of important, huh?” 

“I’d say so, personally,” Jon replies, his tone dry, and Martin giggles a bit. 

“So, what will you do?” 

“Hm. Well first of all, I’ll have to search my personal library for anything that might be helpful,” Jon says. “I don’t have too much that isn’t specifically about making potions and potion components, but there might be something useful in the couple of books on spellcraft that my grandmother left me. Those likely won’t cover anything beyond basics, though. 

“Then, while I’m working on all of my other potions, I’ll have to put aside time and resources to make a few specifically for this…” 

“What sort?” 

“Well, for starters, Ms. Robinson made it very clear that the people are worried over their gardens,” Jon explains. “Though to be fair, on a larger scale, there’s a similar issue with crop yields. The farms near the outskirts of Fairside have, allegedly, also been affected by the inconsistent weather. Too much rain could absolutely ruin their output for this season and likely prohibit their ability to plant for summertime. So, to help mitigate the damage in both situations, I can make a few potions to, for example, reduce the amount of water that gets absorbed by their roots… and perhaps something that can supplement their diets with nutrients they aren’t getting from lack of sunlight…” 

Martin doesn’t interrupt Jon while he speaks, so for the rest of the walk Jon rambles on a bit about his thoughts and plans. Most of what he has to do will require a good bit of spellwork if he’s to pull any of it off, but it really shouldn’t be impossible. The number of tasks ahead of him are, to be honest, more than a little harrowing. But Jon is determined to do what has been asked of him, to the best of his ability — it’s what’s expected, after all, and he has no desire to let down the people of Fairside. 

It’s only once Jon’s house is within view that Martin asks, “Do you want help with this?” 

“What, the basket?”

“Ah- no, no. I meant… well, your project with the weather. Is there any way I could help?” 

Jon shakes his head. “No, ah, I do believe this is something I’ll have to deal with on my own.”

“But do you?” Though it’s cold and grey outside, Jon can still see the faint blush of pink on Martin’s cheeks. “Sorry, I don’t mean to pry or be pushy or anything. It just sounds like a lot of work, you know? All on your own?”

“There’s not much to be done about it,” Jon tells him, shrugging one shoulder. They’re at the front door now, and Jon gratefully ducks beneath the archway out of the rain. “I’m the only one in Fairside with enough magic to do anything about it.” 

Martin follows, a frown on his face. “There’s Sasha too, though — can’t she do anything?”

“I couldn’t ask your friend for something like that.” Jon shuffles on his feet, uncomfortable at the thought of asking a perfect stranger to help him. “Besides, her skill in magic seems more focused on divination.” 

“I’ve seen her do other kinds of spells before,” Martin grumbles, but even he seems to understand Jon’s argument. “Fine, okay then — what about something I can do to help? I may not have magic, but there’s got to be something.”

“I just don’t think so, Martin.” Jon tries to offer a reassuring smile. “Most of what has to be done is a lot of reading and making potions or spells.” 

“You say that like I can’t read,” Martin says as he wrinkles his nose, though his rather light tone lets Jon know he’s joking. Then, suddenly, Martin’s expression becomes very bright and intent. “Oh, I know now! I can help you with the reading! Or, uh, getting books at least.”

“What do you mean?”

“You just said you’d have to be doing a lot of reading for this,” Martin explains. “So if you don’t have something already, you’ll need to go to the library for it. But I don’t think you’d really want to have to walk all the way to Fairside and back, let alone carrying a bunch of books, or if you get caught in bad weather.” 

Jon purses his lips. He hadn’t really thought about that, actually. Martin was right though: just the thought of having to make so many frequent trips into Fairside, most likely in the rain, made Jon painfully aware of his already aching bones. “That… wouldn’t be ideal, no.” 

“And you can’t exactly ask for books in your bundles,” Martin continues. “You’d have to know the exact name of the book, first of all, and someone else would have to find it for you. I don’t think that sort of thing would be covered by your courier service.”

“Not likely,” Jon agrees. 

Martin smiles down at Jon. The little amount of light supplied by such a grey afternoon shines through raindrops, refracting to dance across Martin’s face, his clothes, the dark stone of the archway. Jon is suddenly aware of how close they are — barely two feet of space separates them in their little bubble of dry, calm companionship. “So that’s something I can do to help. I can bring you some books every couple of days, ones that might help you with whatever you need. I can take them back, too, whenever you’re finished with one.”

“I…” Jon has to look away, just for a moment, feeling entirely too overwhelmed. He’s still looking out into the rain when he says, “I couldn’t ask you to do something like that, Martin, so much extra trouble-”

“It’s not trouble if I’m offering to do it,” Martin says, smirking slightly. His eyes are bright and warm with kindness as he continues, “It really won’t be out of my way, Jon. I can change the order of my route; if you don’t mind getting your normal package a bit later in the day, I’ll be able to come here last. That gives me time to finish my usual deliveries, swing by the library, and head back here.” With a slightly bigger smile — and a return of his previous blushing — Martin adds, “Then I won’t have to be off in such a hurry, either.” 

“Oh.” The hand that isn’t clutching Jon’s cane and is no longer burdened with his umbrella comes up to toy with the cord of his glasses. “I… Then, um, yes. Yes, thank you, that would be quite helpful, actually.” 

“Great!” 

They’re both quiet, for a moment, looking at each other — Martin with a slight grin and happiness sparkling in his eyes, Jon with vague apprehension, anticipation. It feels as if, in that moment, something should be happening. Jon’s not sure what though, and it puts him on edge. He tries not to let it dampen his mood, however, which remains much brighter than he’d expected upon coming home at the end of the day. 

“Thank you again, Martin, for walking me home,” Jon says, then feels his cheeks heat up. He hopes Martin won’t notice, turning to unlock and open his door as a means of hiding his face. Once he’s got a foot in the house and has set his umbrella against the wall, Jon turns to take the basket from Martin. “I suppose I’ll see you in a few days, then?” 

“Yeah.” Martin hands over Jon’s things. His hand, now free of it’s burden, joins the other in holding his umbrella handle. Something about it strikes Jon as particularly endearing. “I’ll be off, then. Good luck with everything, Jon! Have a good rest of your day.” 

“You too, Martin.” 

* * *

Jon falls into bed and sleeps almost immediately at the end of that night, but by morning his mind is focused on his new mission. For the next three days, whenever Jon has time between brewing potions, he reads every other book in his house for any information they might supply that could help him mitigate the damage from the wild weather. Not many of them are helpful, and by the time Martin comes to deliver his next package, Jon already has a long list of books to be brought on his next resting day. 

It feels like the next few weeks fly by. The days become a blur of reading, working, reading some more, fretting, spellcrafting, working…

And then the evenings become a routine of Martin delivering Jon’s supplies, and Martin staying over. He asks Jon about the books he’s read that day, and makes them both dinner while Jon thinks out loud for hours on end. It’s interesting — Martin doesn’t possess the ability to use his magic, but he makes a great sounding board for Jon. He asks the sorts of questions Jon would never think to address, and explaining them, more often than not, nudges him in a good direction. In fact, it’s Martin who shoots down one of Jon’s theoretical solutions to the problem of crops being overwatered. 

“You can’t just make something you’d mix into the earth.” 

“Well why not?” 

“We haven’t only been having rainy days, Jon. Sometimes there won’t be any rain for a long while, and the plants still need to be watered manually during times like that.”

“Yes, so?” 

“So,” Martin says, “what happens if you cover the ground with stuff that will repel any water so it can’t soak down to the roots?” 

“...Ah. Yes, uh, I suppose that would make it difficult for people to water the plants when they actually need watering.” 

“Could you do something that… I dunno, like something you can activate manually, and then turn off when you don’t need it?”

There was indeed something Jon could do like that. It took an entire week of fiddling, but eventually Jon managed to craft a spell and find the appropriate components to make it work. Martin spent a day helping him gather large stones with relatively smooth surfaces. The first handful of prototypes were then marked with a sigil using paint. After a quick infusion of magic from Jon, the stones were complete. Martin took a few of them home, more than happy to test them for Jon while he dove back into his potion work. 

The dry stones, as they came to be called, ended up working pretty well. They would keep a space within a certain radius totally dry — all one had to do was place it in their garden. A days worth of rain water could fall and the soil would remain relatively untouched. That way, when the stones were no longer needed, people could simply pick them up and relocate them. 

Jon wanted to feel satisfied when Martin took the first bundle of dry stones back with him that night. And he did feel a bit proud of himself, if only because of the way Martin readily praised his abilities. But as Jon closed the door behind Martin, the weight of his task only felt heavier. This was an effective solution to a specific problem, to be sure. But it was only that: one solution to a minor problem. Jon had many problems to solve. Producing more dry stones as they were needed would be time-consuming and magically draining. Even creating the first batch of had taken a lot out of Jon. 

Eating the other half of his midnight, Jon started seriously considering what, exactly, needed to be done. He was beginning to suspect there was really no way of accomplishing his task at the rate he’d been working. In essence, he was wasting weeks of his time coming up with ways to put a small bandage on a wound, one that was much bigger than the bandages and bleeding profusely. If Jon wanted to make any significant leeway in his project, he would have to start thinking bigger. 

* * *

There comes a resting day when the weather is unexpectedly nice. It’s positively pleasant, actually, with a gentle breeze rustling the flora and carrying the scent of spring — so long missed by the people of Fairside. 

On that day, as with all the other days that month, Martin lingers after delivering Jon’s bundle. But Martin’s barely through the front door before he says, “We should go out!” 

“What?” Jon had just settled back into his chair to get back to his book. It’s a dense hardback, and dreadfully dull, but possessed a fair amount of information concerning the origin of certain sigils, which Jon knew he could use more knowledge on. Still, he tries to suppress his relief as he puts the book back on the table. “What do you mean?”

Martin looks… spritely. He often appears to be in a relatively good mood, to be sure, but today he’s especially vibrant. Something about the weather seems to be bringing out a wistful side of him, for he answers, “We should go on a walk,” with a bit of a sigh. 

“What for?”

“It’s nice outside!” Martin gives Jon a playfully incredulous look. “When the weather is nice, you go on walks.” 

“I understand the concept, yes.”

“Then we should go!” 

“I-” Jon can’t think of anything to say, can only feebly gesture to his very boring book. “But I-”

“Jon, come on,” Martin says, coming to stand behind Jon’s chair. He doesn’t lean over Jon, but that doesn’t mean his presence has no effect. Already, Jon feels his tense muscles begin to relax. “You’ve been cooped up in your house for weeks now. It’ll be good for you, to go out for a bit.” 

“I’ve gone out,” Jon mutters under his breath.

Martin raises a brow at him. “Going down the same trails over and over again to get herbs and roots _for work_ does not count. It’s a resting day, Jon, you shouldn’t be reading, you should be enjoying the weather while it’s not so crazy! Come on, just a quick walk.” 

“Hm.” 

“You can show me around,” Martin says. “I’d like to see some of the weird plants you use for your potions.” 

That… could be enjoyable, actually. Martin is, of course, all too correct — Jon has been spending quite a lot of time indoors lately. It would be a waste to stay in when he doesn’t have to. 

Plus, Martin will be with him. 

So Jon agrees, and after a bit of prep, they head off. Jon shows Martin his usual trails first, pointing out the bushels and groves of plants Jon will use for potions ingredients. He shows Martin where to find a special kind of fungus that grows in rotting, shadowed corners, and how to safely harvest it. He points out all sorts of tiny, innocuous flowers, and explains how their petals can be used. Then, once they veer off into the woods, into territory Jon has mostly left uncharted, Martin takes over. He points out the birds and tells Jon what kind they are and how they tend to sing. He also knows a surprising amount about edible plants, pointing out several things he’s used in dishes before. 

They end up spending a couple of hours just wandering around, peeking under rocks, exploring the leaf litter, gazing up into trees. It makes Jon feel… somewhat childish, actually, but in a good way. He remembers coming up to the tree on the hill with his grandmother to gather midnights. Sometimes, when she’d sent him off on his own, he would waste a bit of time peering into the trees. Sometimes he would explore the very edge of the forest, always staying within sight of the empty cottage. He liked the deep sound of the wood, and wondered over the many secrets it must hold. But Jon, always so conscious of his grandmother and her patience, never strayed too far. 

“I learned a lot about plants and stuff from books,” Martin explains, pointing out some windflowers he found hidden in the shadow of a tree. “That’s how I met Tim, actually, after I moved here — he likes to read too, so we’d see each other a lot in the library. The one in Arryl was a lot smaller than Fairside’s, but I liked to go there when I was younger, to read about plants and animals and poetry.” 

“You like poetry?” Jon asks from his seat on a rock. His knee was beginning to twinge, and he hadn’t brought a cane along, which was an oversight on his part. He didn’t want to slow Martin down, nor did he want to start heading back quite yet — Jon was grateful Martin had been the one to suggest taking a bit of a break. So Jon had settled onto a large rock while Martin sat, cross-legged, in front of a tree in the grass. 

“I do!” He pauses, like he’s thinking something over, then asks, “Do you read much poetry?”

“I don’t read any poetry,” Jon tells him. “I don’t… Well, it doesn’t appeal to me much. I suppose I don’t ‘get it’ the way one is supposed to.” 

Martin scrunches up his nose at that, looking a bit like he wants to say something. But then the moment passes, and he says, “Speaking of the library, that reminds me — I think you should really try coming down on your own sometime soon.”

Jon frowns. “I thought I wasn’t allowed to talk about work on this walk.” 

“I made the rules, so I get to say when you’re allowed to break them,” Martin informs him with a haughty expression. “Besides, this is important, and I don’t want to forget. It’s been harder to find any books that might be helpful to you just based off your lists. I really think it’d be easier for you to come down and pick some out for yourself.” 

“You’re probably right,” Jon grumbles. “I’ve recently decided to try coming at the problem from a slightly different angle… It would definitely be easier for me to find what I’m looking for if I go there myself, if only because I’m not particularly sure what it is I need to find.” 

“We can go tomorrow, if you want,” Martin suggests, “if you don’t mind doing it on your second resting day.”

“No, you’re right, it’s worth doing when I don’t have to spend time on any potions work.”

“We can grab a handful of books for you to use, then you can make a list of any other ones you think will be helpful, and I can bring them later in the week.” 

Jon nods. They sit, quiet for a while, listening to distant birdsong. Jon brings his braid over one shoulder so he can fiddle with it as he speaks. “Martin.”

“Yes?”

“Thank you again,” Jon says, quietly. He wants to look up at Martin, but- things like this… it’s still difficult for him. “For helping.” 

“Of course!” comes the instant response. When Jon finally glances up, Martin is smiling at him. “That’s what friends are for.” 

Friends. So they are friends, then? It shouldn’t be news to Jon, not really; he and Martin have been spending practically every evening in each other’s company. On the days when Martin can’t stick around, Jon has found so many little things missing — the scent of warm tea, the sound of laughter, the joy of conversation. Another pair of shoes by the door. 

Jon has to look away, then, but Martin doesn’t seem to mind. 

By the time they return to Jon’s house, both of them are dirty, scuffed up, and a bit tired. Jon’s knee aches, but the burn of his muscles feels good. It’s not quite evening yet, but Jon feels like he could have a light dinner and fall right to sleep. 

“See?” Martin asks, looking a bit worn, but so very content. He holds the door open for Jon, having reached it first. “Walks do wonders.”

Jon concedes with a light shove on Martin’s shoulder, but he knows he’s smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are at last starting to dip our toes into the Soft Content...


	8. Trustworthy Covers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon finally visits the library.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're officially halfway through the fic! 
> 
> Thanks again to all who've beta-read, and those who have been commenting~

The next day is quite hot, but not intolerably, and Jon is more thankful that it’s not raining than bothered over the humidity. He puts on an airy dress, heading into Fairside with a cane and satchel. 

It would’ve been nice to walk there with Martin, or to meet him at the library itself, but he still had a route to run and wouldn’t be finished until noon at the earliest. So Jon is alone and unprotected upon entering the building. 

He’s immediately accosted by Tim, who had, apparently, been waiting for him. “Morning!”

“Oh. Good morning, Tim,” Jon replies, hoping it isn’t obvious he’s startled.

“Martin mentioned you’d be in today, and thought you might like help finding stuff,” Tim informs him. “So, if you want, Sasha and I already pulled out some books you can start with! Come on, we’re sitting over here.” 

Jon isn’t sure he has much choice, so he follows Tim through the stacks until they arrive at an open section with multiple tables and chairs. There’s a woman sitting at one of them, already nose-deep in one of the books. She doesn’t look up as they approach — in fact, she gives no sign she knows they’re there until Tim very purposefully rests his hand on the table, right between her and the book. “I’m back, Sash! Didn’t you miss me?”

“Not even one bit,” she responds with a smile. Then her eyes are locking onto Jon, and he realizes this is going to be a long day. “Is this him?”

“Yup! Martin’s witchy friend.” 

“Jonathan Sims,” Jon offers with a small curtsy, because it’s polite. “Martin has mentioned you before — Sasha James, right?”

“Yup, that’s me.” As she’s seated, Sasha can only respond with a wave. “I can use magic, too, but I don’t think nearly as much as you.” 

“He’s told me before that you’re good at Seeing?” 

“Pretty much my wheelhouse, yeah.” 

“It doesn’t come naturally to me,” Jon admits, finally taking a few steps closer. He’d forgotten how nice it is to speak to someone else who uses magic. “I’d be more than interested in discussing it further, but I did come here to do some actual research.”

“Lucky you, we’re both quite good at research!” Sasha gives him a big smile, and he sees the slight gap between her two front teeth, which would account for her slight lisp. “I was just looking through this one — _Transformative Transmutation_ — and there’s one chapter that might be helpful…” 

Strangely, despite all of Jon’s reservations, the hours pass pleasantly. He finds himself quite charmed by Sasha’s pragmatic sensibilities, and the ease with which she wrangles the more energetic Tim Stoker. Tim’s more eccentric a person than Jon is used to dealing with, but it’s paired well with his genuine fever for the literary. He seems to know almost exactly where everything is, has quite an eye for catching inconsistencies in histories or collections of theoretical papers, and has a frankly intimidating amount of knowledge pertaining to architecture in general; Fairside’s in particular. 

“Did you know they actually built the entirety of Fairside around that big tree?” Tim says, having just offered Jon a small book which gave an (allegedly comprehensive) overview of Fairside’s founding and development. “That’s why they built town hall right in front of it.”

“I did, actually,” Jon responds, and puts real effort into keeping his tone from sounding defensive or pedantic. Though he’s mostly enjoyed himself, it’s still quite stressful, talking like this with people who are basically strangers. He feels very self-conscious over his behavior in a way that has long since stopped being an issue when he’s with Martin. All the old worries nag at him, irritating and painful, like bug bites, and he’s constantly trying to keep in mind not to scratch. 

But these two aren’t just strangers, they’re _Martin’s_ friends, and Jon wants to get along with them. He most certainly doesn’t want to ruin his chances of making a good impression by falling into all the old personal pitfalls that plagued his adolescence. 

Closing the book to demonstrate his engagement, Jon continues, “My grandmother would tell me stories, sometimes, about the First Fairchild who planted the seed that started this town.”

“Oh, right, you guys have that Fairchild family,” Sasha says, glancing up from her book on weather patterns in mountainous regions. 

“Indeed we do!” Tim confirmed. “Or, well, we did.” 

“Who was the last one alive?” 

“That would be Harriet Fairchild,” Jon answered. “Presumably; she left Fairside a long time ago. Simon Fairchild was the last who died in Fairside. Nana said she knew him, though he was quite a few years older than she was.”

Sasha leaned forward a bit, eyes bright. “Your grandmother? She’s the potion-maker, right?” 

“Yes.”

“I wish I’d gotten to meet her,” Sasha sighs. “I didn’t live in Fairside until a few years ago.” 

“But you knew of her?”

“Oh, sure! You know she made potions for some of the villages beyond the mountains, right? I’m from Nevvin, and we had some of her elixirs all the way over there.” 

“I never knew,” Jon said slowly. Idly, he wondered how many of the potions he made were being shipped so far away. “I helped my grandmother with her work, but mostly stayed by the cauldron — it wasn’t until her health started failing that I was told how to handle working directly with the council.” 

“There were stories about your grandmother in Nevvin,” Sasha said. “Barely anyone could use magic back there, so it’s still got a bit of that stigma. Some folks called her a witch from a wicked city full of deviant practitioners of magic.” Her words are a double-edged sword of amusement and bitterness. “You can guess why I ended up moving away.”

Jon nods, nose wrinkled. “I couldn’t imagine.” 

“I mean, I kinda get the hostility a bit,” Tim says. Something about his tone makes Jon wary. “It’s pretty calm over here, but in other places, there’s a lot more ambient magic that folks have to deal with.”

“That’s true,” Sasha says. “I know people who’ve nearly gotten lost in the woods that way. Some of them did. I even know one fellow who got saturated with magic while swimming, once, and it made him so sick he almost died.” 

Jon winced. Phenomena like that wasn’t extremely common, especially not in Fairside, but he’d been told stories like that by his grandmother. Magic was, at its heart, a wild and untamed thing. Humans exist alongside it and can live with it, but never conquer it. Just as one fears the unseen undertow, or the hidden predator, one must fear magic as a natural force. 

Still feeling a bit cautious over Tim’s abrupt shift in mood, Jon attempted to segue back to safer territory. “Anyway, Simon Fairchild was the last of the family line, but only as far as we are aware. Like Harriet, some of them left and never came back, but they could still be alive elsewhere.” 

“Chronic case of wanderlust, that lot,” Tim says, shifting through the books again.

“He never had any children?” Sasha asks.

“Nah, he married a man, and they either couldn't or didn’t want to,” Tim tells her. “The husband lived a bit longer than Simon, but… Shoot, I can’t remember his name. That’s gonna drive me crazy.” 

“Maybe there’s a book-”

“It was Cielo,” says a voice. Jon twists to find a short mand with messy bronze hair, and behind him-

The name, “Martin,” slips from Jon’s mouth before he even fully registers his friend. But there was Martin, smiling, looking slightly flushed. No doubt he’d hurried over directly from the post to join them. 

“Hi, Jon,” Martin says, beaming. Then he turns to the other man and says, “Thanks for showing me where they were, Mike.”

“No problem,” says Mike — Mike Crew, if Jon was remembering correctly. Tim had explained that he worked with four other people. Mike Crew was, technically, his boss; apparently his family owned the library itself. 

Mike quirks a brow at their table. “I sure hope you don’t expect me to be putting all of this away.” 

“Oh shove off,” snarks Tim. “I’ve got it. Where’s Gerry?” 

“Working in the back. It’s nearly dinnertime, you know.” 

Sasha perks up. “No way.” 

“You three have been at it for hours. All the chittering scared off several patrons.” 

“Now that’s just a boldfaced lie,” says Tim. “Nobody _reads_ anymore.” 

“Right.” Mike has barely moved since the start of the conversation, nor has he bothered to even glance at anyone else besides Tim. Keeping it up, he lets his eyes rest somewhere above their heads as he asks, “How much longer are you lot going to be here? I was going to lock up early. I feel like it might rain soon.” As he says this, he fidgets with the scarf around his neck, and Jon just barely catches a glimpse of something pale branching across his skin. 

Before Tim can banter, Jon begins to stand. “This is fine, we can leave now. I think I’ve found more than enough to occupy myself with.” 

“You can only take five at a time,” Mike tells him. It spoken in a way that tells Jon he’s said this many, many times. 

“That’s fine. Just let me-” 

Jon instantly piles three books into his arms, then intensely debates a few of the others he’d been considering. Mike has already wandered back to the front of the library by the time Jon finally makes up his mind. 

It’s drizzling when their small group steps out of the building. Sasha and Tim offer quick goodbyes before dashing off, neither of whom thought to bring an umbrella. To be fair, neither had Jon, which was troublesome oversight on his part. He’d been halfway down the hill before realizing he’d forgotten it, and he’d been hoping he could get home before anything happened.

Luckily for him, Martin did bring an umbrella, and has no qualms with sharing. He’s holding it over both their heads as they step down the stairs, and Jon says, “I like them.”

“Tim and Sasha?” 

“Yes. We had some surprisingly interesting and productive conversations. Sasha, especially — she’s every bit as clever as you told me.” 

“Yeah! Yeah, Sasha’s really smart. Did you talk to her about her divination stuff?” 

“A bit. She explained how it’s been more or less impossible to predict any of the weather changes we’ve been having. I think I’ve told you before, but it is already incredibly difficult to weather-read with even fifty-percent accuracy, let alone one-hundred, and what we’re currently dealing with is obviously an extraordinary circumstance.” 

“Mmhm. Um, Jon?” 

Jon stops walking, taking a moment to re-adjust his hold on his satchel and make sure the flap wasn’t allowing any rain water to sneak in. “Yes?”

“It looks like it’s going to start raining harder,” Martin tells him, and Jon realizes he’s right. He can hear it in the way the raindrops fall on their umbrella, very gradually growing louder, hitting harder. “Do you- I mean, I figure you won’t want to run all the way home, or something, so if you’re comfortable with it, I can- we could go back to mine? Or- or maybe we could stop somewhere to have dinner while we wait?” 

Both suggestions make Jon’s heartbeat pick up unexpectedly. Then, he says, with surprising ease and certainty, “I’d prefer yours. I… I don’t want to get trapped in a place that might be, ah, crowded.” 

“Sure! Here, I don’t live too far off. Let’s go this way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon said it's MY turn to see YOUR house !!


	9. Standing Safe Beneath Your Crest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon visits Martin's place, and the night ends on a note neither had expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been very excited to post this chapter since last week, so I really hope you guys enjoy it~
> 
> Minor CWs for:  
> > jon briefly describing how he got his scars (i.e. burn injuries)  
> > discussions of family deaths and funerals

Keeping close, Martin leads Jon through the narrow walkways that weave between buildings. It’s mostly quiet out, with many folks having retreated home before the rain started. Sunlight still pushes its way through the scant smattering of clouds hanging high over them, smearing saturation in broad strokes across tiled roofs and bricks. From this or that angle, it sparks on the iron handrails, and shimmers in the tiny puddles as they grow and merge together.

Martin’s house isn’t so dissimilar from the others, only slightly bigger, single-story. There’s space on either side, separating him from his neighbors. On one side is a pathway, but on the other, nestled between tall brick walls, is a garden. Plants grow from the soiled space there; flowers spill over from little window boxes. All of them are somewhat shielded from the rain by the two roofs above, but as Martin unlocks his front door, Jon notices one of his dry stones has been placed beneath a bushel of lavender.

Somehow, Martin’s house looks exactly as Jon had been expecting it. Not that he’d really spent time imagining the inside of Martin's house — actually, until Martin made the offer, Jon hadn’t ever considered he might come here. It’s a warm space, though sparse, and not nearly as cluttered as Jon’s house. Martin has one couch in front of a small, dark fireplace. The few shelves and tables seem mostly devoid of superfluous decoration. Mostly, the empty spaces are occupied by potted plants, hues of green mixing with the earthy tones of wood and brick. 

Martin’s kitchen, much like Jon’s, is small and open to the sitting room. Once their shoes are off and Martin has stashed his umbrella, Jon is escorted to the couch. “You can sit, I’ll find something to heat up for dinner! Do you mind vegetable soup? Pretty sure I’ve got enough leftovers tucked away in the cold box.” 

“That sounds fine,” Jon says, and Martin slips away. 

Soon the soup is in a pot over the fire, and while they wait for their food to warm up, they talk. Jon sums up what he and the others managed to learn at the library that day, which unfortunately isn’t much. “It’s a start, though,” Jon sighs, adjusting his skirt. He feels the urge to pull his feet up onto the couch, but that would be dreadfully improper. “The books I brought along with me tonight may be of some help.” 

“That’s good.” 

“Certainly better than nothing.” Jon rests his head against the back of the couch, staring up at the wood of the ceiling. “I’ve always been good at doing research like this — I had to do it quite often for my grandmother, when she was too busy brewing and couldn’t leave the house. But it’s not how I prefer to be spending my time; I’d rather be _doing_ something.” 

“You’ve been doing quite a lot,” Martin says. “I’m glad you had the others helping you out today. How did that part go, by the way?” 

“What do you mean?”

“You met Sasha today,” Martin expounds. “It was your first time really talking to Tim, too. I know you said you liked them, but how was it?”

“Oh! I- Yes, they were, um… they were both kind. I quite like Sasha, I think. She’s bright and inquisitive,” Jon summarizes. “Tim too, really — both of them were very helpful today.” 

Martin’s expression settles into something very pleased. He smiles as he says, “I’m really glad you all got along.”

For a while it’s quiet. Jon keeps looking at his bag, and eventually Martin tells him it’s more than fine if he wants to read while the food is being made. At first Jon protests, but as he’s learned, Martin can be incredibly stubborn. Especially, it seems, when he’s acting as host; Jon notices it in the way Martin moves, the tone of his voice — he’s demonstrably more comfortable on this side of things, it appears, than being someone’s guest. There’s an assuredness to Martin’s behavior that’s never been totally present when he’s at Jon’s house. It makes Jon feel a bit self-conscious, but not really in a bad way. Mostly he feels tended to and… safe, like the trials of the day are behind him, and now’s the time to rest without worry. 

So he doesn’t argue with Martin, simply picks out one of the books and begins to read. 

Soon enough the food is done, and Jon’s balancing a bowl of soup on his lap. Martin sits with him, leaning on the opposite arm of the couch. “So, what sort of book are you looking at?” he asks, blowing at his spoonful of food. 

Jon thinks of how to explain. “It’s a bit complicated, but essentially it’s a book exploring the theory behind spellcraft. I want to get a better understanding of it.” 

“You’ve mentioned more than once that you’re better with potions than with spells,” Martin says. “I guess I can understand having a preference or more skill with one specific thing, but what’s so different? I mean, you use spells when making potions, right?”

“It’s… Yes, essentially. But potions depend on components and their magical properties more than… It’s difficult to explain. A lot of it has to do with incantation, intuition, and intent.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“If not me, then you’ve surely seen Sasha use a spell or two. Do you remember the words she was saying when she did it?” 

“Um.. I don’t think so. I mean, I don’t think it was in any language I knew.” 

“It wouldn’t have been. Magic has... its own sort of language, and… See, this is the part that’s complicated…” Jon takes a few moments to eat, chewing on the best way to convey something that feels so instinctual. “The only way I can think to describe it is that magic — all magic — isn’t… inactive. It’s animated; it sort of has a will? There’s quite a bit of debate, actually, on how ‘alive’ magic is.”

“What, like… maybe magic is a thing like us? A living creature?” 

“Along those lines. Some theorists argue that magic created everything, but it is no more alive — or rather, sapient — than plants. Others think it may be the product of some ancient being or creature, something that was once very alive and more like us. It- it’s a dense argument, and one that will ultimately have no satisfying conclusion, so I digress. The important part is that magic works in ways we can’t totally understand.

“When someone like Sasha or I use a spell, often it’s one that was taught to us. Nana taught me lots of little things: how to make a light, how to mend small tears, how to test if water was safe to drink, how to make a basic shield, et cetera. I could go on — there are many spells used for common, every-day things.

“There are words — incantations — that must be used for all spells, but those common ones are so old that no one really knows who or where they come from. It’s arguably a dead language, one that only lives on because it’s passed orally through the generations.

“So, if we take into consideration that specific words are needed to accomplish specific goals, but the language used to craft incantations is not commonly known, taught, or disseminated in its entirety, if there even is an ‘entirety’ that can be encompassed in a method concise enough for humans to fully process or comprehend-”

Here, Martin holds up his spoon, an apologetic look on his face. “You’re starting to lose me,” he admits with a bit of a chuckle. “This is… wow, yeah, some uh… big picture stuff.” 

Jon waves a hand helplessly, offering a wry smile. “As I said, it’s a dense topic. Look, to answer your question without all the extra: spellcrafting is difficult because you have to do a lot of extra research to even figure out what, exactly, must be spoken to accomplish your task. Sometimes it’s easy, sometimes it’s extremely difficult. If you’ll recall, I mentioned that intuition is the other major factor when spellcrafting — this comes to play more heavily in the crafting side of things. You have to have a very strong idea of what sort of goal you wish to accomplish, and consolidate all elements at your disposal until you find something that works.”

Martin takes a thoughtful slurp of soup. “That sounds… very nebulous.” 

Jon shakes his head and shrugs, feeling defeated, but amused. “I’d love to do a better job of explaining, but to be quite frank I think all that research earlier on has taken its toll.”

“Not just that, I suspect. You’ve been so busy lately.” 

“There’s not much to do but keep busy,” Jon sighs. “The reason I’ve got this book is because I don’t think there’s anything to be done about the situation except, maybe, craft a spell to mitigate the damage of the weather.”

Humming thoughtfully, Martin crosses his legs and says, “You told me before that weather’s really hard to deal with, even using magic.”

“Yes.” 

“So there probably isn’t some spell that would just tell the rain to go away?” 

“Not likely. I mean, there are some known rituals that can be done that are said to influence weather patterns, but those tend to be insular — the knowledge is kept close within the community. I’m unlikely to find anything in a book that would be useful to our specific situation.”

“And you don’t think you could craft something like that whole cloth.”

“Oh gods, no. I lack the experience. And even if I didn’t, it’s my honest opinion that anyone who messes around with weather magic is just asking to be struck down by some awful karmic imbalance.” A sudden thought comes to Jon, and he blurts, “Which reminds me! That fellow, Mike Crew was his name, right? Did he have a scar under that scarf of his?”

“Oh, yeah. You can only see a bit of it-”

“It looked like a Lichtenberg scar,” Jon tells him. “You know, from lightning.”

Martin’s eyes are wide when he asks, “Lightning?” 

“If someone is struck by lightning, and they don’t die from it, they’re left with something called a Lichtenberg scar,” Jon explains. “Lots of little branching paths.”

“God, I- I don’t know, I mean, maybe? You make it sound pretty distinct.”

“They are, which is why I was curious. I only saw a bit of it, but enough to recognize it.” 

“It’s not like I’ve ever asked,” Martin tells him, shrugging one shoulder. His bowl is empty, and he stands up. Martin holds out a hand, and after a second of confusion, Jon quickly offers his mostly-empty bowl with gentle thanks. “I don’t talk to Mike much, but that’s no big surprise. Besides you, Tim and Sasha are really my only friends. So I couldn't tell you how Mike got his scar.”

Martin disappears into the kitchen to rinse off their dishes, leaving Jon alone with an odd, displeased feeling. It doesn’t seem quite right, he thinks, for Martin to say he doesn’t have any other friends. He strikes Jon as the sort of person who has a lot of friends. Martin is kind and attentive and always seems to know what Jon needs, and never oversteps boundaries or acts in an arrogant or cruel way. The idea that he’s lived in want of friendship feels… incorrect. 

Jon wants to say something — offer something — to Martin when he comes back into the room, but he doesn’t have a chance. Instead, Martin is the one who speaks. “Can I ask you about something?”

“Oh, um, sure?”

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” Martin begins, looking the slightest bit uncomfortable, like it’s a question he should know better than to ask. “You just… I’m just curious, if you don’t mind answering. But I was wondering what your grandmother was like?”

“You want me to tell you about Nana?” 

“If that’s okay,” Martin says, voice gentle with uncertainty. “You don’t have to.”

“No, it’s… I don’t mind talking about her.” Jon sits up straighter, clearing his throat. “Was there… I mean, do you want to know anything in particular?”

“Just the sort of woman she was,” Martin explains. “You see, I’ve only lived in Fairside for a couple of years. I never actually met her, but it seems like everyone else knew her. I guess I’m just wondering what she was like. And how- how was she? To you, I mean. It… it sounds like you two were close.”

“...Well, I suppose we were,” Jon starts. “We only really had each other. When my parents died, I was very young, and my grandmother was my only living family — I suppose I was to her, as well. She lost her son, and I’m sure it was very difficult, to lose her only child and now have to take care of another one, at her age. I wasn’t exactly… that is, it was known that I could use magic by then, but I had no idea how. From what I can remember, which isn’t much, neither of my parents could use it. This is to say I came to my grandmother newly orphaned and having no idea of how to control myself or my abilities.

“I was… a deeply annoying child,” Jon says with an awkward chuckle. “I was very excited by magic, but it was hard for me to stay focused on one element of it for long. My grandmother put a lot of time and energy into teaching me, which was difficult when she also had so much work to do. There still weren’t many others who used magic in Fairside by then, and most of them traveled. There was no one else who could take care of me or teach me what I needed to know, nor could anyone else take up Nana’s duties. She did it all on her own.”

“Wow.” Martin looked genuinely impressed, though there was something in his expression that prompted Jon to continue:

“Nana, she- Considering the circumstances, she did an admirable job raising me. Sometimes I would have to be left alone while she worked, and in those days I spent a lot of time wandering. I explored Fairside on my lonesome, discovering all the little nooks and crannies there were to find. I remember spending a lot of time at the tree, though I wasn’t sure why I was drawn to it at the time. I suspect now it has something to do with how much magic it possesses.” 

“The tree?”

“Yes, the- the large tree in front of town hall. It’s very, very old, you know. The first thing planted in Fairside, by the First Fairchild.”

“Oh, I see! You liked to spend time there?”

“I’d sit between the roots and read, usually,” Jon says, smiling at the memory. It was always warm and quiet there. “But of course, when my grandmother began training me properly, I couldn’t do that as much. I had to stay closer to home, so she could call on me when needed to help assist with any potions or errands. It wasn’t technically an apprenticeship, but that’s essentially what it was. Nana taught me everything she knew, expecting me to take her place.” 

“Was it difficult? To learn all of that so young?”

“No, not at all! I was very interested in learning it. Sure, some things took a while to get used to, and I made mistakes-” Jon breaks himself off with another laugh, then holds out his left arm. “I’m sure you’ve noticed the spots?”

“I- Yeah, sure,” Martin admits, glancing. Jon can’t recall ever having caught Martin staring at the strangely pale scars speckled up along his left side. Only a couple are on his face, the most obvious resting just over his cheekbone. “I’ve, uh, I’ve wondered before, but-”

“They’re from a brewing accident,” Jon tells him. “When I was young, I put the wrong component in a potion, and it reacted badly. The entire cauldron exploded, unfortunately.”

“Oh no!” 

Jon laughs again, waving a hand. “It was- well, alright, it wasn’t exactly _fine_ when it happened. It was an expensive mistake, and I wasted a lot of very useful ingredients.”

“Were you okay?” 

“Obviously.”

Martin gives him a sour look. “You know what I mean, Jon.”

“I was… alive. I was fine, really,” Jon insists. “Just burned. The potion splattered on me, and that’s what made the scars. It’s why they're so light, you see, despite my skin. Unlike this one.” 

Jon holds up his right hand, showing off the burn on his palm. “This one is more recent, and entirely my own fault — carelessness. I put a corrosive potion in the wrong container, which melted almost instantly in my hand while I was holding it.”

At this, Martin pales. “That sounds _awful.”_

There’s a level of discomfort in Martin’s voice that warns Jon this subject might be touchy. “Sorry,” he offers, resting his hand back on his lap, palm-down. “I shouldn’t be talking about injuries in such detail.” 

“No, no, it’s- I just hate burns. Like, really hate burns,” Martin explains. “Just thinking about something like that- Yeah, sorry, it just isn’t my cup of tea.” 

“Then let’s backtrack a bit.”

“Yes, please,” Martin says, waving a hand and looking quite grateful.

“There’s not much more that needs to be said. Nana was… very good at what she did. She taught me how to be very good at it. Really, she was more of a mentor than anything else… perhaps even more than a grandmother. I think we were both more comfortable thinking of each other in that way — teacher and student.”

“Hm.” Martin was leaning back, looking comfortable, but deep in thought. Jon squirms a bit in his chair. When Martin notices, he offers a smile. “Sorry, I hope I’m not… I was just curious. It sounds like your grandmother was a really big influence on you? And I never really got to know her. I went to her funeral, because it seemed like a big deal — everyone went at the time. It was sort of surreal, especially after… um, well, after going to my mum’s funeral. It was really different.”

“Oh?”

“When my mum died, it was really just me,” Martin tells him, his voice soft, a little blank. “There were a few other people who came. Some older women who’d been helping me out, neighbors mostly. But no one else, really. My grandfather had died a long time before, and that was the last of our family, from what I’m aware.

“So, I guess it was just an interesting difference? My mum’s funeral felt so important, but it was a really small, quiet thing. Then I went to the funeral of someone I’d never even met, and it was like an _event_. I mean- sorry, that sounds really inappropriate, doesn’t it? I just meant that… Well. It seemed like a real sad thing, when your grandmother passed away.”

“It was,” Jon says, his voice hardly louder than a whisper. Martin’s looking away, now, into the fire. “Martin?”

“Hm?”

“...Are you okay?”

“Sorry, just… Um, it’s just still difficult, sometimes. Remembering.”

“Yeah.” Jon watches the fire, too. “I know what you mean.”

* * *

Martin, unsurprisingly, insists on escorting Jon back home. It’s still raining, a dark and glistening world waiting just beyond the threshold. Jon waits while Martin dons his cloak, then summons a handful of light, enunciating the spell so that Martin can hear the words he speaks. It’s a small spell, quickly cast, sounding mostly of soft consonants. The golden light blooms between them, warming their faces as the fire did, and Jon can see Martin’s smile through the stormy shadows surrounding them. 

It’s a quiet trek. Both men seem all talked out, a bit worn down from discussions of their pasts, the people still living there. Jon is, honestly, more surprised at how light he feels after everything. Talking about his grandmother… well, he’s never really done it. There was a brief time when he thought he was comfortable bringing up the subject with Georgie, back when they were still together, but that got messy fairly quickly after Nana passed. Then there was no one else, only Jon and the house on that lonely hill. 

But now there’s Martin, walking beside him, holding the umbrella and keeping most of it over Jon, shielding him from rain that could easily be repelled or magicked dry should it fall on him. Still, it’s nice. Jon lets himself stand just the slightest bit closer to Martin, close enough for their shoulders to touch. 

Through the town and the trees, across sodden grass, they eventually make it back to Jon’s place. It stands, tall and sturdy and dark, calling out to Jon with its assured comfort. Yet, he hesitates. Martin takes him to the archway of his door, and they both duck under it, the umbrella falling away just enough to make room. Standing there, together, quite close, and Jon recalls the last time this happened. He holds the light close to his chest, cradling it like a tiny bird fluttering with nerves. He could feel the magic in that space, holding them, too. 

“Alright then,” Martin sighs, giving Jon a look of sure affection. It’s enough to make Jon shiver. “It was nice to have you over! And thanks for letting me walk you home.” 

“You didn’t have to.” 

Martin only smiles. “I know.” 

“Thank you,” Jon says, and really means it, so much he thinks he might cry. There are too many things to thank Martin for. He wishes he was better at this, knew how to do it right. In the moment, his only idea — or is it simply desire? — seems so bold and out of place that he can hardly begin to imagine attempting it. 

Yet, as Martin begins to re-adjust the hood of his cloak and lift the umbrella, ready to bid his final farewell and depart, Jon can’t stop himself from reaching out. One hand pulls away from the light, resting on Martin’s cloak. The material shimmers blue-silver beneath Jon’s magic, with hints of golden-brown to match the light in Martin’s eyes, curiously watching. 

“I…” Jon dares to take a breath, then dares to step closer. He moves his hand up Martin’s arm to his shoulder. His fingers catch the edge of Martin’s hood, gently pulling it back and off his head. Martin steps back beneath the archway so that they’re standing toe-to-toe in the almost-dark. The rain, once more, isolates them in that space, and Jon can nearly believe that the world has gone away, leaving only them and the magic. 

Martin’s hair is dry, pulled back with a band, though wavy strands have escaped. Jon hardly thinks twice about lifting a finger to push them back, tucking them away behind Martin’s ear. He can see the way Martin’s expression begins to change, in subtle ways Jon can’t put into words. He can only feel the difference, and it’s that which finally makes him ask, “Martin do you… I mean, could you, um… Could you just come forward, slightly, please?”

Martin complies, bending forward slowly, until their faces are nearly level. Then Jon moves forward, the light between them almost smothered between their chests; on tip-toes, Jon’s lips meet Martin’s cheek. 

It’s a gentle kiss, brief and a little cold, but when Jon pulls back he feels he’s never been warmer in all his life. The light in his free hand pulses faintly, then dims, then evens out as Martin shyly smiles. 

“Thank you,” Jon says again, because that’s all he can think to say, and he really does mean it. 

Martin straightens up. He lifts one hand to take the one Jon has left on his shoulder, then holds it between them, for just a moment longer. “Of course, Jon,” he says, soft as the shadows cast from the glow of Jon’s magic.


	10. Secrets Kept and Shared

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and the others tirelessly search for solutions. One evening, Jon decides to bring Martin with him to visit Georgie and Melanie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I nearly forgot to update today! Had a busy morning, and it completely slipped my mind... But here you go!

Each day, the sun rises, casting its light across the mountains like a wave slowly crashing into the valleys and below. Sometimes, that light is stopped by dark clouds, which deliver rain instead. Then, with increasing frequency, it is broken into fragments and scattered across snowy ground, caught in snowflakes that tickle noses and worry brows. The people of Fairside watch, wary, yet life goes on; every day, it rises with the sun, whether they can see the sun or not.

The next few weeks of Jon’s life become something rote, yet non-linear. When he’s not working, he’s reading, and if he’s not reading, he’s spending time with Martin and- and his friends. Jon spends so much time in Fairside that other people — faces that were once familiar — begin nodding from afar or saying hello on his way to and from the library. At first, Jon is a mess of nerves with each encounter, haunted by old anxieties and guilt he can’t quite name. Gradually, with every rainy day that passes, it becomes easier to face them. He nods back, he smiles. 

Work and research continue unerringly. On every one of Jon’s resting days, he dutifully makes his way down into Fairside to spend his afternoons in the library. He’s kept company by a rotating cast — often Tim or Sasha, sometimes Martin if he has a day off or makes his deliveries more quickly than usual. As of late, the other employee, Gerry Delano, has started assisting Jon. He’s presented some interesting perspectives on magic — he has some minor ability to use it himself, though nothing on the same level as Sasha or Jon. 

On evenings like that, Martin always walks Jon home. He listens to Jon as he thinks out loud over what he’s read that day, the many ways he hopes to solve the plethora of problems laid at his feet. Sometimes, Martin offers an idea or two of his own, and their conversations wind long, uninterrupted paths all the way back to Jon’s house. 

Usually Martin stays, but not for very long. They’ll share dinner, sometimes, or if there’s not enough time, a midnight will be split between them. Then, with a smile, Martin will say his goodbyes under the archway, and…

It hasn’t happened again. The… the kissing. Jon hasn’t tried to, anyway, and neither has Martin, and sometimes Jon frets over it. Did he make a mistake? Was Martin uncomfortable over what happened, and he was only trying to spare Jon’s feelings by avoiding the subject altogether? If he felt the same way, he would do something to show it, right? 

It’s been so long since Jon has tried to be… Well, the first and last person he dated was Georgie, and when that relationship had met its bitter end, Jon hadn’t been interested in trying again with anyone else. He’d gone away, hiding up on his distant hill, far from all the things that still hurt so much. It was hard, handling them by himself, and so he’d decided he would rather not handle them at all. It was easier to be isolated from Fairside, focus on his work, and let the days pass quietly. 

It takes a long time for Jon to admit, lying in bed, secure in the darkness of his room, that he doesn’t want to go back to what he had before. Each day now is a struggle, presenting some new issue or obstacle for Jon to fight against, to overcome. But he values what he gains every time he leaves his house and braves the people of Fairside. Martin might have brought something of it to him, tucked away like a gift in his delivery baskets, but Jon knows he’ll lose it all if he lets the fear build up around him again, cutting him off from everyone else.

And what is he afraid of, really? Jon makes himself face this question every time Martin gives him that smile — the one that lets Jon know everything’s fine. He has his worries, his doubts, but without any words, Martin can assuage them. It makes Jon feel so light inside, despite everything going on. With his whole heart, he wants to reach out for Martin, maybe give back the feeling of safety and understanding and… 

Why does he hesitate? Why doesn’t he reach out, when Martin is so near? 

Seeing another grey morning, with its snowflakes and flurries, Jon makes his decision. Things are fine as they are now, and he thinks Martin understands that Jon is… distracted. They’re all working towards the same goal, now — it’s a major concern for everyone who lives in Fairside. The weather problem must be fixed, and Jon is at the center of finding that solution. Martin helps, every day, and Jon understands this steadfast support might be coming at the expense of Martin’s own wants and needs.

If that’s the case, then Jon knows what he has to do. He promises himself that, as soon as this whole issue is resolved, he’ll talk to Martin. Perhaps, by then, he’ll even have the courage to admit to himself what he’s really feeling.

* * *

“I can’t see straight anymore.”

Across from Tim, Jon lets out a sigh, and closes his book. “I’m afraid I have to agree. We’ve been at this for quite a while.”

“Yeah…” Sasha reluctantly looks away from her loose pile of documents and papers. Taking off her round glasses, she rubs at her eyes and asks, “What time is it?”

“Nearly sundown,” Martin supplies from the other end of the table. He and Gerry have been talking quietly for a while now; Jon can’t remember exactly when they peeled off from the group, but he thinks Gerry was explaining something about spells to Martin, and they hadn’t wanted to disturb the others. Now they both shuffle closer, collecting books and stacking them. 

The cleanup process is simple enough, and Jon sets aside his handful of books to take home. Martin takes them up and walks with him to the front so Mike can check them out. 

“Any luck tonight?” Mike asks with his usual polite interest. 

“Maybe,” Jon sighs, but he’s not sure there’s anything really. For the last week or so, he’s felt a bit like he’s running in circles. He’s learned quite a lot more about magical theory than he thought he knew previously, but it’s still so difficult to find anything that could help in a concrete way. Spellcraft is difficult and takes so much time — Jon can’t waste time or resources on something that won’t work or can’t be managed. The only option they have is to find something pre-existing that will definitely work, or somehow stumble upon the right combination of disparate parts that could, maybe, be cobbled together into a working spell. 

When Jon and Martin leave, the others are already standing outside. They say their goodbyes, with Sasha giving Jon a one-armed hug before walking off with Tim. Gerry salutes and heads in a different direction, leaving only Jon and Martin standing on the library steps, appreciating the warm golden light of evening. It’s has been quite a nice day, which now constitutes unusual weather. 

“Can I walk you home?” Martin asks, just as he always does. 

This time, Jon shakes his head, but he still steps in close, just enough to gently loop one hand through Martin’s arm to tug him along. “Actually, I wanted to visit a friend today. She’s been wanting to meet you, so if you were alright with that, would you like to come along?”

“A friend?”

“I can’t remember — have I ever mentioned Georgie to you?”

“Um… I think, once or twice. That’s the lady who owns that big grey cat who comes to your house sometimes, right? Admiral?”

“Yes, The Admiral is her owner. She and I are friends. She lives at the opposite end of Fairside from me with her partner. I don’t see them often because it’s a bit of a walk both ways, and… Well, before, I wasn’t coming into Fairside much.”

“Yeah. I’ll come!” Martin says with a gentle smile, and they’re off. 

* * *

Georgie’s house rests, somewhat sequestered, between the empty husk of another building and the side of a cliff. It’s an old house, modified over the years to accommodate more people and more modern structure, but the simple design and stonework proves its status as a relic. Georgie’s door isn’t much more than a block of ill-shaped wood jammed into a hole in the stone, sticking at first, then creaking open with one firm kick at its base from the inside. There stands Georgie, looking very pleased to see she has visitors. “Jonathan!” 

“Georgina,” Jon responds flatly, then chuckles as she steps forward to hug him. He pats her shoulder, appreciating the weight and warmth of her against him. Their breakup had been — a little messy. But then Melanie came to Fairside, and Georgie needed Jon to help the other woman acclimate to things, and- In the end, things got better. They’d managed to make up, and now Jon understood that he did still love Georgie, and she loved him, but they were more suited to being friends than anything else. 

Georgie pulls away, just enough to give Jon a swift kiss on the cheek, before turning to his companion. “You must be Martin,” she decides, sounding very sure of herself. She holds out a hand. “I’m Georgie Barker; pleased to finally meet you!”

“Oh! I- yeah, that’s me,” Martin says, blushing. He shakes her hand. “It’s nice to meet a friend of Jon’s.”

“Likewise,” Georgie says, and something in her tone makes Jon frown at her, then poke at her side. She giggles and dances away from his hand, gesturing for them to come in. “Mel and I sat down to eat, you wanna join?”

Martin squeaks, “We- I mean, um, I’d hate to impose-”

“Don’t think it counts when dinner’s just some toast ‘n jam, mostly,” said a voice from the other room. “And we’ve far too much cottage pie to complain over anyone else having some. It’ll go bad otherwise!”

“You’re really doing us a favor,” Georgie agrees conspiratorially, glancing over her shoulder as they enter the kitchen. “Dear Melanie made entirely too much the other day and really expected me to eat all of it.”

“You love cottage pie!” Melanie was already seated at the table, tearing into at a piece of bread with red jam on it. Then she asked, “Who’s that with Jon?”

“It’s that Martin fellow,” Georgie tells her. She crosses the length of the table, carefully sidling between the chairs and the wall, to deliver a kiss to her forehead. “The courier, you know.”

“Oh yeah! Hey.” Melanie waves her fork roughly in the direction of the doorway, though Martin has already drifted toward one of the chairs. “Good to meet you.” 

“Hello,” Martin greets, his voice quiet with shy understanding. Melanie’s head tilts to focus on him more, and he smiles. “Pleased to meet you both. You made this cottage pie?” 

“Damn right I did,” Melanie grumbles, “for my lovely girlfriend, who hardly appreciates it.” 

“Entirely too much,” Georgie says again, shaking her head as she takes her seat next to Melanie. 

Jon sits next to Martin, and soon the two men are served, digging in while Melanie and Georgie continue to talk. The atmosphere is familiar and comforting to Jon, but he feels almost hyper-aware of Martin, hoping he doesn’t feel too out-of-place having dinner with two strangers. Luckily that doesn’t seem to be an issue: Martin is pulled into the conversation early on, and soon enough he’s laughing at Melanie’s brass jokes and talking to Georgie about her travels. 

“You’ve been to the city?” he asks with a sense of wonder in his voice. 

“A couple times, yeah. I like to go new places, but you know — money. Can’t wander too far from home, especially nowadays.” 

“Yeah,” Martin nods along with great sympathy. “I’ve always wanted to go to the city. I think- I mean, I don’t really remember, but I think I went once with my dad when I was really young? I’m not sure of the memory though.”

“It’s alright.” Melanie shrugs. “The charm wears off the first time you see someone pissing in a corner in broad daylight, which happens like, maybe an hour after you’ve been there.” 

Jon wrinkled his nose. “I thought discussions of bowel movements were officially banned from the dinner table.”

“Hush up Sims, this is my house.”

“Actually, it’s my house,” Georgie pipes in, grinning. 

“Oh yeah, I forgot, I’m just a fixture that takes up space.”

“Like a lamp,” Jon helpfully supplies, keeping his tone light, and he barely flinches when Georgie reaches over to smack his shoulder. 

Melanie looks perfectly scandalized. “Insulted my own home!” 

_“My_ home,” Georgie snorts. She then turns to Jon and says, “Stop antagonizing my very pretty lamp.” 

“Fine.” Jon takes his last bite of pie and pushes his plate away. “I actually wanted to talk to the both of you about something.”

They listen as he explains his situation. Georgie knows some of it, of course — every now and then, he’ll send minor updates on his progress via The Admiral. It’s the first time he’s gotten to explain in detail how much is going on, though, and by the end of it, both Georgie and Melanie look decently impressed. 

“You’ve been at this for how long now?” Georgie asks. 

Jon sighs, rolling his shoulders, feeling quite tired just thinking about it. “I don’t know… a couple of months? Two months?” 

“Just over two,” Martin agrees. He’s been quiet while Jon was talking, finishing his food and nodding along. Now he perks up and asks, “Can one of you use magic? Is that why we’re here, Jon?” 

“And here I thought you were just popping in to say hello to your friends,” Melanie jokes, rolling her color-washed eyes. Then to Martin she says, “Sorta. I used to.” 

“Used to?”

“Technically I still can,” she explains, wiggling her fingers. “But not the way I used to. Had an accident—” She gestures at her face. 

“Oh! I’m so sorry,” Martin says. 

“It’s alright! Kind of a cool story, actually? Wanna hear?” Melanie leans forward on her elbows, grinning in Martin’s direction, and Jon scoffs. 

“Melanie, don’t-”

“No, I’m serious! I never get to talk about my cool, badass blinding story,” she insists, pretending to whine. She turns to Georgie. “Please? C’mon, you can help with all the boring parts.”

“...It is kind of a cool story,” Georgie says, smiling at Martin. “If you’d like to hear it?”

Martin glances at Jon, but he only shrugs, taking one last sip of water. “It’s an interesting story, for sure.” 

“I would like to, then,” Martin agrees, and Melanie claps her hands. 

In short order, the table is cleared, and Melanie is ushering them to the small sitting area. Her cane taps the leg of the tiny couch, and then she smacks the cushions on top. “Sit here!” 

As they sit, she takes a few steps over until she’s at a comfortable chair. “Right, so, way back, I used to travel all over the place,” she says, settling down and pulling her legs up to tuck them underneath her. She settles her cane against the side of the chair. Through the doorway leading into the kitchen, Jon hears Georgie starting on dish washing. He leans against the arm of the couch, trying to catch her eye, and when he does, offers a look and a vague gesture with his hands. She just shakes her head and waves him off. Then she actually winks, nodding her head at Martin, before turning away. 

Face burning, Jon turns back to Melanie, grateful for the fact that Martin is clearly distracted by her story. Jon tunes in just as Melanie finishes explaining why she started traveling in the first place. 

“So you believe in ghosts and things?” Martin asks. “Have you ever seen one?”

“It might not be what you’d call a ghost, exactly,” Melanie says. “It’s more like… Well, magic does all sorts of wonky things to a place, and to people. I believe that magic can sort of… hm, like, stain a place? Especially if someone who has a lot of magic dies, or is really close to the place where they died. Their magic — or, like, their essence? — stays there, and it can make things weird.” 

“Not that anything like this has ever been conclusively proven or demonstrated,” Jon interjects over Martin’s shoulder, and tries not to grin when Melanie exclaims with indignance. 

“You wouldn’t know a ghost if it came up behind you and bit you in the arse,” she says. “See, then there are folks like Jon over here who’d rather everything be boring and dull and say ‘oh, it’s just residual magic, it’s causing auditory hallucinations’, or grief-stricken relatives or whatever.”

“You’ve admitted before it could absolutely be those things!” Jon counters, pointing accusingly at her. “Remember that one letter-”

“Anyway, you’re interrupting my cool story, Jon, so why don’t you hush up and let the blind girl talk?” 

Jon _harrumphs_ and settles down, crossing his arms, and quietly appreciates Martin’s unsubtle giggling. He can just see the way Martin’s cheeks are turned up with his smile, and with how close they have to sit on the couch, he can feel the vibrations of his laughter across the scant inches of space between them. Jon tries to suppress his feelings and focus in on the story. 

“Right, where was I?”

“You were telling me about the first time you came here.” 

“Yeah! So, see, Fairside’s pretty well-known for being founded by magic-users, and of course the Fairchilds, who are arguably the strongest, most long-lived magical family bloodline on record. That’s how I met Georgie, actually. There was this little festival thing happening or whatever, something about celebrating the magic of the ancestors for blessing the land or something? I don’t remember, but I thought if I was gonna meet anyone else with magic, it’d likely be at this place. 

“Both of these two were there — Jon and Georgie.” Melanie pauses, then shouts toward the kitchen, “Where you two on a date that night?”

“Don’t think so!” Georgie calls back. “That was, uh- right before.”

“Oh.” 

Jon speaks up, just loud enough to explain to them both, “It was a sort of tradition to go. The Night of Candles. Everyone would gather around the tree at the center of town and light candles, say a little spell, and make a wish for the town. You were supposed to wish for things like successful crop yields or healthy babies.” 

“Or good weather. Maybe that’s the problem,” Georgie says, popping her head in through the doorway, wiping at her hands with a rag. “No one wished for that last year, and it pissed off the tree!” 

“I’ll bet on that,” Melanie says, smirking. 

Jon rolls his eyes. “Anyway, that’s why Georgie and I were there together. We’d been going as friends before we were dating, and…” He pauses, then reluctantly adds, “It was the last night I expected to be there, honestly. I wanted to go and be there with Georgie before I moved up to the hill.”

“So it was the night of bringing way too many fire starters to the very flammable tree,” Melanie says, and Jon leans back in his spot on the couch, a bit twitchy with nerves and relief. He feels something touch his knee and looks to see Martin’s leg has gotten closer. After a second of internal debate, Jon scoots just a bit closer, so their thighs touch. 

Melanie continues to explain how she ran into Georgie and Jon, the first two people near her age she’d been able to find in the crowd, and ask them what was going on. She and Georgie got on right away, while Jon hung back. At the first mention of her traveling, ghost-hunting career, Jon proceeded to make the worst impression possible, and ended up splitting off from the other two. 

“I thought Jon was a prick,” Melanie laughs, “and I was right! But I guess he’s not so bad now. We talked a lot in our letters and I got to know him a little better. So at least now I know why he’s such a stick in the mud.”

“I still can’t believe you wrote to me,” Jon mumbles. He adds, louder so Georgie can hear, “I can’t believe _you_ told her she should write!” 

“I thought it’d be funny?” Georgie admits, finally done with the cleaning. There aren’t any chairs left, so she steals the pillow from Melanie’s and tosses it onto the floor, sitting there. 

“Anyway, that’s how the three of us met. I came back to visit Fairside a couple of times, saw Georgie. Sometimes I’d stay for a week or so, then head off again. Sometimes I was just passing through. But I kept coming back. Fairside is a good place to stock up, and there are lots of different ways to head out if you want to travel. 

“Anyway, one day I’m looking into this abandoned village. I never learned the history of it, exactly, only that people used to live there and then… didn’t. A lot of it was sort of burned down, so it was really impossible to tell what exactly happened, but my money was always on raiding, they’d been pillaged or something. 

“I was trying to get a good read on some of the hotspots I sensed there. At one point I found what I believed to be a graveyard, which was giving off the idea that some really dense pockets of magic existed there. I didn’t mean to get too close, but I guess it’s not exactly a science, figuring out what counts as too close… So, maybe I angered a spirit or something? But I got shot for it.”

Martin jumps in his seat. “You were shot?” 

“Yeah, I got hit by… I don’t really know what it was, actually? Some sort of magic, but it felt like a bullet. It hurt like hell and it did a number on my leg; I couldn’t walk for a couple days afterward. Then after all that, my magic was… different. Wonky, at first, and then there would be these… I guess you’d call them flares. It was like all of a sudden, and the most random times, my magic would be way more powerful than it usually was. Sometimes it happened while I wasn’t doing anything at all, and it always caught me off guard, but I knew I _had_ to do something with all the excess, or I’d get hurt. So I’d just do the first thing I could think of to expel it, and usually that… wasn’t good.

“It quickly grew to be a problem. People are wary of magic at the best of times, especially out on the countryside, in little towns, but even in the city. Some girl running around exploding random objects and bleeding magic so heavily even strangers on the street could pick up on it wasn’t going to end well, no matter what.

“It got to the point where I had to start avoiding towns altogether. Then most people,” Melanie said, her tone getting a bit more grim. “It was… not great. The magic that was- I don’t know what it was doing, exactly, but maybe infecting me? It was starting to get so bad I couldn’t tell where my magic ended and this other magic began. Maybe by then, they were the same thing. But it wasn’t what I’d been living with before, and it was difficult to control and it _hurt._

“Then, one day, I woke up, and I was just… lost.”

“Lost?”

“It’s hard to explain,” Melanie says, rubbing the bridge of her nose with one hand. “I just… I just had no idea where I was. It wasn’t like I’d wandered into the woods and gone off the trail. I had absolutely no sense of direction anymore. I could barely see anything- or, if I did, I’d forget what I’d just seen as soon as it was out of sight. The world just became this sort of unknowable, scary place for me. I don’t know what really went on, if I’d been spirited someplace by the magic, or if I was actually stumbling through the countryside, totally delusional and not knowing it. If it was my own fucked up magic getting me lost, or if I’d wandered into some sort of… _something_ , I don’t know. 

“All I really did know was that, wherever I’d ended up, it was bad, and I had to find some way of getting out. So I had to do a spell. It was a Seeing spell, something to help me find… I wasn’t sure, exactly, what to try looking for. I didn’t really have a ‘home’ to go to, you know? I’d been living the nomadic life for so long, I couldn’t think of any one place I wanted to try being. And I didn’t have a ton of friends… I…” 

At this point, Melanie blushes faintly, looking begrudging as she admits, “I guess I could have been thinking of Georgie, since this is where I ended up. Took everything I had, but eventually the spell got me through whatever place I’d been lost in. Next thing I know, my head is splitting — for a little while, I thought I was going to die. I think I blacked out while using the spell at some point, honestly, I really don’t remember a lot of what happened past a certain point. It was pretty nightmarish. But when I woke up, Georgie was there.”

“She showed up in front of the house,” Georgie explains, a serious expression on her face. She reaches up for Melanie’s hand, tapping the woman’s knee until it’s supplied. Their fingers link together, and Georgie continues. “It was dark out, but I thought I heard something, like… Like a chanting sound? I would’ve stayed in, but the voice sounded familiar. I looked out the window and there was this weird fog everywhere. Or- well, it wasn’t really fog. It looked more like everything outside was just… getting fuzzier. It was harder to tell what was what. The trees didn’t look like trees, and even all the colors seemed wrong, even though I couldn’t tell you now that they’d actually changed so much. 

“The voice kept getting closer, and I still couldn’t understand what it was saying, but I definitely recognized it, so I eventually went outside. And once I realized it was Melanie talking, I called back. Eventually I found her stumbling into view. It was really weird — at first she was just a shadow, like the trees, but then suddenly it was her.” Georgie pauses, then says, “Her eyes were- I dunno. Burning. It was really intense.” 

“Wow.” Martin’s voice is hardly a breath. He says to Melanie, “I’m really glad you’re okay! That sounds… horrible, really.”

“It was,” she says, but with a bittersweet smile. “I’m just lucky I guess.”

“So you’re saying that it was the spell that made you blind?” Martin asks.  
  


“Yeah, it was too much for me to handle. I don’t remember how long I was holding it, but obviously it was too long.” 

“Is that because-” Martin looks a bit shy, but eventually asks, “Was it because you didn’t have an anchor?” 

“Yeah, probably! Like I said, I’ve done a spell like that before, but last time I had an old colleague helping me out, and I only had to use it for a few minutes to figure out which direction we had to go. Spells like that — looking far distances, or trying to find something really specific — can take a lot out of you. I didn’t have anyone with me when I was lost, obviously, so I had to sustain it all on my own. I figure that’s why I can’t use magic now; I sorta burned through my reserves maintaining the spell, and whatever infected my magic before got burned along with it.” 

“She can still do little things,” Georgie adds. “Make light or heat, stuff like that.” 

“Yeah, little things.”

“I’m sorry,” Martin says, but Melanie waves him off. 

“It’s really fine! Better this than dead.” She smirks, resting her chin on one hand. “Although, maybe then I could’ve turned into a ghost. That’d be sort of cool. Then I could’ve haunted Jon for the rest of his life.” 

“Perish the thought,” Jon says, and the others laugh. 

* * *

Eventually it gets late, and so Jon tells Martin, “You can go home without me; I’m going to stay the night here.”

“Oh, alright! Are you sure?”

“I want to catch up on some things with the others,” Jon tells him as they walk to the front door. He briefly rests his hand on Martin’s arm, offering a smile, then pulls away. “Get home safe.” 

It’s a swifter goodbye than he’s used to nowadays, with Martin, but entirely necessary. The courier’s hardly been gone for five seconds before Melanie loudly inquiries, “Right, so, that was the bloke you said Jon fancies, right Georgie?” 

“Mmhm!” Georgie responds, with far too much cheer. She grins at Jon, and though this is the exact reason he chose to visit in the first place — aside from introducing them to Martin — he can’t help but feel a little cornered. “So. Martin, huh?”

Melanie says, “I like him; he laughed at all my jokes.”

“Martin is very polite,” Jon tells her pointedly, then carefully makes his way back to the couch, careful of her legs as she feebly kicks in the direction of his voice. He falls into his previous seat, letting out a sigh, posture dissolving in a way he’d never let anyone else witness. But it’s just Georgie, and Melanie literally can’t see him, so Jon doesn’t bother with propriety. He puts his hands on his face and sighs again.

“Oh, wow,” Georgie says, finally pushing herself up from the ground so she can sit next to Jon. “You’ve got it _really bad.”_

“Shut up,” Jon grumbles, but it’s half-hearted. In the next moment, he says, “I like him so much and I have no idea what I’m doing.” 

“Sounds just like you.”

“I know,” Jon sighs.

Melanie speaks up, saying, “Is just asking him out too difficult for you? He’s obviously into you, and I can’t even see the guy.”

“It’s… complicated,” Jon protests.

“That’s what everyone says, except they’re always wrong. It’s never as complicated as you make it out to be in your head.”

“But it _is_ complicated.” Jon sits up and frowns at his hands where they fidget on his skirt. “With everything going on- It’s all just too important to let myself — either of us — get distracted by… this. Whatever it is. It’s selfish.”

“That’s not selfish,” Georgie protests, but despite her frown, she seems to consider Jon’s words. “I can’t say you’re wrong about the other stuff, though. How has all that been going, by the way? Your last update made it sound like you were swamped.”

“I still am,” Jon tells her. “Progress has been slow. All of us are doing our best to search for anything that might be useful, but so far? Not much luck.”

“You’re trying to do a weather spell, right?” Melanie asks.

“Yes.”

“That’s ballsy of you.”

“I don’t want to! I know it’s going to be dangerous, which is why this is not the time to be letting myself get sidetracked by frivolities. I have to focus.”

Georgie sighed and leaned back on the couch, resting her chin in one hand. “So, what, you’re just going to ignore this guy you like?”

“I… I’m not going to ignore Martin. I don’t think I can, really, at this point.” After a moment of hesitation, Jon reluctantly admits, “We’ve kissed, just the one time though-”

“You’ve kissed! Why are we even having this conversation, then?” Melanie exclaims. 

“It- It’s not so straightforward as that!” Jon snaps, flustered — he knows he’s blushing, and he knows Georgie is close enough to spot it. “I kissed him, but, but it wasn’t much of anything, just a peck on the cheek, and he probably just thought it was a thank you gesture more than anything-”

“God.” Melanie slumps into a position in her chair that looks distinctly uncomfortable. “You’re totally useless, Jon.”

Jon can’t think of a way to refute her, so he just stays quiet, glaring. 

A second later, he feels Georgie’s hand on his shoulder. “It’s a lot to deal with, Jon. Maybe it is best to put the Martin thing aside, for now? He’ll still be there afterwards. I mean, it sounds like he took the kiss thing well enough, right?”

“Right…”

“So yeah, if it’s stressing you out, just try not to think about it too much for now.”

From the corner of his eye, Jon can see Melanie grimace, but she doesn’t say anything. So Jon just nods along with Georgie. “I… I do think that would be best.” 

“Just for now, though.” Georgie smirks. “You should still tell him how you feel later.”

“Ah… right.”

Jon doesn’t stay much longer than that. He’s teased for lying to Martin about staying the night — “That’s not a great way to start a relationship, Jon.” — but Jon explains he wanted to talk with them alone for a bit, and Martin would have insisted on walking him home.

“Cute,” Georgie notes, to Jon’s embarrassment.

Georgie gives him a hug before sending him off, and he parts from Melanie with a handshake. Just before Jon makes it off the property, though, he hears Melanie call out to him. Turning, he sees her carefully walking down uneven stones steps after him, feeling along with her cane; he hastily makes his way back over to her. “What is it, Melanie?”

“I just wanted to tell you something,” she says, reaching out a hand. When Jon takes it, she tugs, gesturing with her cane towards the side of the house, where Georgie grows their vegetables. “We can talk over this way.”

Slowly, she leads him away from the house, still gripping his hand in one of hers. Eventually they come to the end of Georgie’s property, where grass becomes weeds, and from there grow the beginnings of a forest, disguising a natural path that leads into the mountains. Melanie’s eyes, so pale, gaze out into the quiet dark. The sun had long since disappeared, leaving only moonlight to outline the world around them. 

“D’you remember when Georgie said, before she found me out here, that she heard me chanting something?”

“Yes.” 

“It was a spell. At least, I’m pretty sure it was. And I don’t mean the Seeing spell, I mean something else.”

“Really?”

“I don’t know what kind of spell it was, I just know it wasn’t anything I’d already learned. It just sort of… came to me. I think it’s what led me to Georgie, sort of. The Seeing spell definitely helped me know which way to go, I think, but… Actually being able to get here? I think that came from the other one.” 

Jon hums, thinking. “And you’re sure you never heard the spell before?”

“No, it was something totally new to me. It felt..” Melanie closes her eyes, breathing in deeply. “It felt… like peace. I was so… scared, when I got lost. I was in so much pain from the Seeing spell, and I knew if I broke it for even a second, I was never going to get away from that place. Then those words came to mind, and I felt… a lot safer. I didn’t know what I was saying or why, but I just kept repeating the words, over and over, and the more I said it, the more sure I was that I was going somewhere good.” 

They’re silent for a moment, standing together, listening to the nighttime sounds. A gentle wind, only slightly cold, swims through the dark forest canopy, and Jon idly wonders if it’s going to snow again. Before his worries can weigh his mind, though, Melanie says in a low, serious voice, “I wanted to tell you. The words. The spell. It helped me when I really needed it, and… Look, Jon, I don’t know exactly what you’re going to have to do to fix this weird weather, but something in my gut is telling me it won’t be easy. And I know you’re too much of an idiot to ask for help when you really need it, and you’re stupid enough to do something that could probably get you killed if you felt like you had to.”

“Hey-”

“So I’m telling you this, because if you have to do some sort of big spell, I don’t want you getting lost in it,” she tells him. Jon swallows the indignance he felt at her previous words, the feeling disappearing fast. Instead he stares at her, ruminating in the earnestness. 

“Okay. Tell me.”

She tells him. Leans right into his ear and whispers the phrase into his ear. The shape of it tickles his senses, cementing itself instantly in his memory. Jon mouths the words back, then says them loud enough so Melanie will be able to hear, and she nods. “That’s it.”

“Thank you.”

“Just… be careful,” she grouses, poking his foot gently with the end of her cane. After another quiet moment, she adds, “I was alone, when it happened. I didn’t have a choice over whether or not I’d die without anyone helping me out. I’m lucky help came to me regardless. If you need an anchor, Jon, you should ask for one.” 

“I doubt things will get that serious,” Jon says, trying to sound more confident than he feels. He doubts Melanie buys it, but she doesn’t say anything else. Merely turns heel and starts off toward the house. 

Jon walks with her to the door. To his surprise, she pulls him into a hug, one arm around his waist while the other holds her cane. Jon manages to hug back before she pulls away. “Don’t get lost in the dark on your way home!” she teases, and closes the door behind her. 


End file.
